POEMS. 


CELIA    :HAXTER 


NEW    YORK 
PUBLISHED  Bf  KURD  AND  HOUGHTON 

CamfcrflJge : 

1874 


A  NFAV  AM)  KM   \k<;Kl>  EDllloN. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

L.  L.  THAXTER, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington 


RIVKRSIDK,  CAMBKIOUB: 


H.    O     HOUfillTON    AND   COMPA 


CONTENTS. 


PAGH 

LAND-LOCKED 9 

OFF  SHORE u 

EXPECTATION 13 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  POCAHONTAS  16 

A  THANKSGIVING 22 

THE  MINUTE-GUNS 25 

SEAWARD 27 

ROCK  WEEDS 29 

THE  SANDPIPER 32 

TWILIGHT 34 

THE  SWALLOW 36 

A  GRATEFUL  HEART 39 

THE  SPANIARDS'  GRAVES 41 

WATCHING 43 

IN  MAY 46 

A  SUMMER  DAY 48 

REGRET 52 

BEFORE  SUNRISE 54 

BY  THE  ROADSIDE  ........  58 

SORROW 61 

NOVEMBER 63 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

COURAGE 64 

REMEMBRANCE 66 

SONG 67 

A  TRYST 69 

IMPRISONED 74 

PRESAGE 76 

MIDSUMMER  MIDNIGHT 78 

APRIL  DAYS 81 

HEARTBREAK  HILL 83 

THE  SONG-SPARROW 87 

IN  KITTERY  CHURCHYARD 89 

AT  THE  BREAKERS'  EDGE 92 

"  FOR  THOUGHTS  " 95 

WHEREFORE  ? 97 

GUENDOLEN IOO 

THE  WATCH  OF  BOON  ISLAND         ....  102 

BEETHOVEN 106 

MOZART 108 

SCHUBERT 109 

CHOPIN in 

THE  PIMPERNEL 113 

BY  THE  DEAD .117 

FOOTPRINTS  IN  THE  SAND 119 

A  BROKEN  LILY 124 

MAY  MORNING 125 

ALL  's  WELL 127 


CONTENTS.  vii 

PAGE 

THE  SECRET 132 

SEASIDE  GOLDEN-ROD 135 

MARCH 137 

SONG 139 

THE  WHITE  ROVER 140 

POEMS    FOR   CHILDREN. 

INHOSPITALITY 147 

THE  GREAT  WHITE  OWL 150 

YELLOW-BIRD 154 

SPRING 156 

THE  BURGOMASTER  GULL 158 

MILKING 162 

JACK  FROST 165 

THE  BIRDS'  ORCHESTRA 168 

THE  BLIND  LAMB 170 

THE  ROBIN .        .        .        -175 

MOZART  AT  THE  FIRESIDE 177 

UNDER  THE  LIGHT-HOUSE 180 

THE  CRADLE 184 

CHANTICLEER         .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .187 


POEMS. 


LAND-LOCKED. 

BLACK  lie  the  hills,  swiftly  doth  daylight  flee, 
And  catching  gleams  of  sunset's  dying  smile, 
Through  the  dusk  land  for  many  a  changing  mile 

The  river  runneth  softly  to  the  sea. 

O  happy  river,  could  I  follow  thee  ! 

O  yearning  heart,  that  never  can  be  still ! 

O   wistful  eyes,  that  watch  the  steadfast  hill, 
Longing  for  level  line  of  solemn  sea, 

Have  patience,  —  here   are  flowers  and  songs  of 

birds, 

Beauty  and  fragrance,  wealth  of  sound  and  sight, 
All  summer's  glory  thine  from  morn  till  night, 
And  life  too  full  of  joy  for  uttered  words. 
1 


10  LAND-LOCKED. 

Neither  am  I  ungrateful :  —  but  I  dream 
Deliriously,  how  twilight  falls  to-night 
Over  the  glimmering  water,  how  the  light 

Dies  blissfully  away,  until  I  seem 

To  feel  the  wind  sea-scented  on  my  cheek, 
To  catch  the  sound  of  dusky  flapping  sail 
And  dip  of  oars,  and  voices  on  the  gale 

Afar  off,  calling  low ;  —  my  name  they  speak  ! 

O  Earth !  thy  summer  song  of  joy  may  soar 
Ringing  to  heaven  in  triumph.     I  but  crave 
The  sad,  caressing  murmur  of  the  wave 

That  breaks  in  tender  music  on  the  shore. 


OFF  SHORE. 

ROCK,  little  boat,  beneath  the  quiet  sky, 
Only  the  stars  behold  us  where  we  lie,  — 
Only  the  stars  and  yonder  brightening  moon 

On  the  wide  sea  to-night  alone  are  we ; 
The  sweet,  bright  summer  day  dies  silently, 
Its  glowing  sunset  will  have  faded  soon. 

Rock  softly,  little  boat,  the  while  I  mark 
The  far  off  gliding  sails,  distinct  and  dark, 
Across  the  west  pass  steadily  and  slow. 

But  on  the  eastern  waters  sad,  they  change 

And  vanish,  dream-like,  gray,  and  cold,  and  strange, 

And  no  one  knoweth  whither  they  may  go. 

We  care  not,  we,  drifting  with  wind  and  tide, 

While  glad  waves  darken  upon  either  side, 

Save  where  the  moon  sends  silver  sparkles  down. 


12  OFF  SHORE. 

And  yonder  slender  stream  of  changing  light, 
Now  white,  now  crimson,  tremulously  bright, 
Where  dark  the  light-house  stands,  with  fiery  crown. 

Thick  falls  the  dew,  soundless  on  sea  and  shore : 

It  shines  on  little  boat  and  idle  oar, 

Wherever  moonbeams  touch  with  tranquil  glow. 

The  waves  are  full  of  whispers  wild  and  sweet ; 
They  call  to  me,  —  incessantly  they  beat 
Along  the  boat  from  stern  to  curved  prow. 

Comes  the  careering  wind,  blows  back  my  hair, 
All  damp  with  dew,  to  kiss  me  unaware, 
Murmuring  "  Thee  I  love,"  and  passes  on. 

Sweet  sounds  on  rocky  shores  the  distant  rote  ; 
O  could  we  float  forever,  little  boat, 
Under  the  blissful  sky  drifting  alone  1 


EXPECTATION. 

THROUGHOUT  the  lonely  house  the  whole  day  long 
The  wind-harp's  fitful  music  sinks  and  swells, — 

A  cry  of  pain,  sometimes,  or  sad  and  strong, 
Or  faint,  like  broken  peals  of  silver  bells. 

Across  the  little  garden  comes  the  breeze, 
Bows  all  its  cups  of  flame,  and  brings  to  me 

Its  breath  of  mignonette  and  bright  sweet  peas, 
With  drowsy  murmurs  from  the  encircling  sea. 

In  at  the  open  door  a  crimson  drift 

Of  fluttering,  fading  woodbine  leaves  is  blown, 
And  through  the  clambering  vine  the  sunbeams  sift, 

And  trembling  shadows  on  the  floor  are  thrown. 

I  climb  the  stair,  and  from  the  window  lean 
Seeking  thy  sail,  O  love,  that  still  delays ; 

Longing  to  catch  its  glimmer,  searching  keen 
The  jealous  distance  veiled  in  tender  haze. 


14  EXPECTATION. 

What  care  I  if  the  pansies  purple  be, 

Or  sweet  the  wind-harp  wails  through  the  slow 

hours  ; 
Or  that  the  lulling  music  of  the  sea 

Comes  woven  with  the  perfume  of  the  flowers  ? 

Thou  comest  not !     I  ponder  o'er  the  leaves, 
The  crimson  drift  behind  the  open  door  : 

Soon  shall  we  listen  to  a  wind  that  grieves, 
Mourning  this  glad  year,  dead  forevermore. 

And,  O  my  love,  shall  we  on  some  sad  day 

Find  joys  and  hopes  low  fallen  like  the  leaves, 

Blown  by  life's  chilly  autumn  wind  away 

In  withered  heaps  God's  eye  alone  perceives  ? 

Come  thou,  and  save  me  from  my  dreary  thought ! 

Who  dares  to  question  Time,  what  it  may  bring  ? 
Yet  round  us  lies  the  radiant  summer,  fraught 

With  beauty :  must  we  dream  of  suffering  ? 

Yea,  even  so.     Through  this  enchanted  land, 
This  morning-red  of  life,  we  go  to  meet 

The  tempest  in  the  desert,  hand  in  hand, 

Along  God's  paths  of  pain,  that  seek  His  feet. 


EXPECTATION.  15 

But  this  one  golden  moment, —  hold  it  fast ! 

The  light  grows  long :  low  in  the  west  the  sun, 
Clear  red  and  glorious,  slowly  sinks  at  last, 

And  while  I  muse,  the  tranquil  day  is  done. 

The  land  breeze  freshens  in  thy  gleaming  sail ! 

Across  the  singing  waves  the  shadows  creep  : 
Under  the  new  moon's  thread  of  silver  pale, 

With  the  first  star,  thou  comest  o'er  the  deep ! 


THE   WRECK   OF   THE   POCAHONTAS. 

I  LIT  the  lamps  in  the  light-house  tower, 

For  the  sun  dropped  down  and  the  day  was  dead  ; 

They  shone  like  a  glorious  clustered  flower,  — 
Ten  golden  and  five  red. 

Looking  across,  where  the  line  of  coast 

Stretched  darkly,  shrinking  away  from  the  sea, 

The  lights  sprang  out  at  its  edge,  —  almost 
They  seemed  to  answer  me ! 

O  warning  lights  !  burn  bright  and  clear, 
Hither  the  storm  comes  !  Leagues  away 

It  moans  and  thunders  low  and  drear,  — 
Burn  till  the  break  of  day  ! 

Good-night !  I  called  to  the  gulls  that  sailed 
Slow  past  me  through  the  evening  sky  ; 

And  my  comrades,  answering  shrilly,  hailed 
Me  back  with  boding  cry. 


THE    WRECK  OF  THE  POCAHONTAS.       I'J 

A  mournful  breeze  began  to  blow, 

Weird  music  it  drew  through  the  iron  bars, 

The  sullen  billows  boiled  below, 
And  dimly  peered  the  stars ; 

The  sails  that  flecked  the  ocean  floor 
From  east  to  west  leaned  low  and  fled  ; 

They  knew  what  came  in  the  distant  roar 
That  rilled  the  air  with  dread ! 

Flung  by  a  fitful  gust,  there  beat 
Against  the  window  a  dash  of  rain :  — 

Steady  as  tramp  of  marching  feet 
Strode  on  the  hurricane. 

It  smote  the  waves  for  a  moment  still, 

Level  and  deadly  white  for  fear  ; 
The  bare  rock  shuddered,  —  an  awful  thrill 

Shook  even  my  tower  of  cheer. 

Like  all  the  demons  loosed  at  last, 

Whistling  and  shrieking,  wild  and  wide, 

The  mad  wind  raged,  while  strong  and  fast 
Rolled  in  the  rising  tide. 


1 8        THE    WRECK  OF  THE  POCAHONTAS. 

And  soon  in  ponderous  showers,  the  spray, 
Struck  from  the  granite,  reared  and  sprung 

And  clutched  at  tower  and  cottage  gray, 
Where  overwhelmed   they  clung 

Half  drowning  to  the  naked  rock  ; 

But  still  burned  on  the  faithful  light, 
Nor  faltered  at  the  tempest's  shock, 

Through  all  the  fearful  night 

Was  it  in  vain  ?     That  knew  not  we. 

We  seemed,  in  that  confusion  vast 
Of  rushing  wind  and  roaring  sea, 

One  point  whereon  was  cast 

The  whole  Atlantic's  weight  of  brine. 

Heaven  help  the  ship  should  drift  our  way ! 
No  matter  how  the  light  might  shine 

Far  on  into  the  day. 

When  morning  dawned,  above  the  din 
Of  gale  and  breaker  boomed  a  gun  ! 

Another  !     We  who  sat  within 
Answered  with  cries  each  one. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  POCAHONTAS.   19 

Into  each  other's  eyes  with  fear, 

We  looked  through  helpless  tears,  as  still, 
One  after  one,  near  and  more  near, 

The  signals  pealed,  until 

The  thick  storm  seemed  to  break  apart 
To  show  us,  staggering  to  her  grave, 

The  fated  brig.     We  had  no  heart 
To  look,  for  naught  could  save. 

One  glimpse  of  black  hull  heaving  slow, 
Then  closed  the  mists  o'er  canvas  torn 

And  tangled  ropes  swept  to  and  fro 
From  masts  that  raked  forlorn. 

Weeks  after,  yet  ringed  round  with  spray, 
Our  island  lay,  and  none  might  land ; 

Though  blue  the  waters  of  the  bay 
Stretched  calm  on  either  hand. 

And  when  at  last  from  the  distant  shore 

A  little  boat  stole  out,  to  reach 
Our  loneliness,  and  bring  once  more 

Fresh  human  thought  and  speech, 


20   THE  WRECK  OF  THE  POCAHONTAS. 

We  told  our  tale,  and  the  boatmen  cried : 
"  'Twas  the  Pocahontas,  —  all  were  lost ! 

For  miles  along  the  coast  the  tide 
Her  shattered  timbers  tossed." 

Then  I  looked  the  whole  horizon  round,  — 

So  beautiful  the  ocean  spread 
About  us,  o'er  those  sailors  drowned ! 

"  Father  in  heaven,"  I  said,  — 

A  child's  grief  struggling  in  my  breast,  — 
"Do  purposeless  thy  children  meet 

Such  bitter  death?     How  was  it  best 
These  hearts  should  cease  to  beat? 

O  wherefore !     Are  we  naught  to  Thee  ? 

Like  senseless  weeds  that  rise  and  fall 
Upon  thine  awful  sea,  are  we 

No  more  then,  after  all?" 

And  I  shut  the  beauty  from  my  sight, 

For  I  thought  of  the  dead  that  lay  below ; 

From  the  bright  air  faded  the  warmth  and  light, 
There  came  a  chill  like  snow. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  POCAHONTAS.   21 

Then  I  heard  the  far-off  rote  resound, 

Where  the  breakers  slow  and  slumberous  rolled, 

And  a  subtile  sense  of  Thought  profound 
Touched  me  with  power  untold. 

And  like  a  voice  eternal  spake 

That  wondrous  rhythm,  and,  "  Peace,  be  still !  " 
It  murmured,  "bow  thy  head  and  take 

Life's  rapture  and  life's  ill, 

And  wait.     At  last  all  shall  be  clear." 

The  long,  low,  mellow  music  rose 
And  fell,  and  soothed  my  dreaming  ear 

With  infinite  repose. 

Sighing  I  climbed  the  light-house  stair, 
Half  forgetting  my  grief  and  pain  ; 

And  while  the  day  died,  sweet  and  fair, 
I  lit  the  lamps  again. 


A  THANKSGIVING. 

HIGH  on  the  ledge  the  wind  blows 

the  bay-berry  bright, 
Turning  the  leaves  till  they  shudder 

and  shine  in  the  light : 
Yellow  St.  John's-wort  and  yarrow 

are  nodding  their  heads, 
Iris  and  wild-rose  are  glowing 

in  purples  and  reds. 

Swift  flies  the  schooner  careering 

beyond  o'er  the  blue  ; 
Faint  shows  the  furrow  she  leaves  as 

she  cleaves  lightly  through ; 
Gay  gleams  the  fluttering  flag  at 

her  delicate  mast  ; 
Full  swell  the  sails  with  the  wind 

that  is  following  fast. 


A    THANKSGIVING.  23 

Quail  and  sand-piper  and  swallow 

and  sparrow  are  here  : 
Sweet  sound  their  manifold  notes,  high 

and  low,  far  and  near ; 
Chorus  of  musical  waters,  the  rush 

of  the  breeze, 
Steady  and  strong  from  the  south, — 

what  glad  voices  are  these! 

O  cup  of  the  wild-rose,  curved  close  to 

hold  odorous  dew, 
What  thought  do  you  hide  in  your 

heart  ?     I  would  that  I  knew ! 
O  beautiful  Iris,  unfurling  your 

purple  and  gold, 
What  victory  fling  you  abroad 

in  the  flags  you  unfold  ? 

Sweet  may  your  thought  be,  red  rose, 

but  still  sweeter  is  mme, 
Close  in  my  heart  hidden,  clear  as 

your  dewdrop  divine. 
Flutter  your  gonfalons,  Iris,  the 

paean  I  sing, 
Is  for  victory  better  than  joy  or 

than  beauty  can  bring. 


24  A    THANKSGIVING. 

Into  thy  calm  eyes,  O  Nature,  I  look 

and  rejoice  ; 
Prayerful,  I  add  my  one  note  to 

the  Infinite  voice : 
As  shining  and  singing  and  sparkling 

glides  on  the  glad  day, 
And  eastward  the  swift-rolling  planet 

wheels  into  the  gray. 


THE   MINUTE-GUNS. 

I  STOOD  within  the  little  cove, 

Full  of  the  morning's  life  and  hope, 

While  heavily  the  eager  waves 

Charged  thundering  up  the  rocky  slope. 

The  splendid  breakers  !     How  they  rushed, 
All  emerald  green  and  flashing  white, 

Tumultuous  in  the  morning  sun, 

With  cheer  and  sparkle  and  delight! 

And  freshly  blew  the  fragrant  wind, 
The  wild  sea  wind,  across  their  tops, 

And  caught  the  spray  and  flung  it  far 
In  sweeping  showers  of  glittering  drops. 

Within  the  cove  all  flashed  and  foamed 
With  many  a  fleeting  rainbow  hue  ; 

Without,  gleamed  bright  against  the  sky, 
A  tender  wavering  line  of  blue, 


26  THE  MINUTE-GUNS. 

Where  tossed  the  distant  waves,  and  far 
Shone  silver-white  a  quiet  sail  ; 

And  overhead  the  soaring  gulls 

With  graceful  pinions  stemmed  the  gale. 

And  all  my  pulses  thrilled  with  joy, 
Watching  the  winds'  and  waters'  strife, 

With  sudden  rapture,  —  and  I  cried, 

"  O  sweet  is  Life  !  Thank  God  for  life  !  " 

Sailed  any  cloud  across  the  sky, 
Marring  this  glory  of  the  sun's  ? 

Over  the  sea,  from  distant  forts, 

There  came  the  boom  of  minute-guns ! 

War-tidings  !     Many  a  brave  soul  fled, 
And  many  a  heart  the  message  stuns ! 

I  saw  no  more  the  joyous  waves, 
I  only  heard  the  minute-guns. 


SEAWARD. 
To . 

How  long  it  seems  since  that  mild  April  night, 
When,  leaning  from  the  window,  you  and  I 

Heard,  clearly  ringing  from  the  shadowy  bight, 
The  loon's  unearthly  cry! 

Southwest  the  wind  blew,  million  little  waves 
Ran  rippling  round  the  point  in  mellow  tune, 

But  mournful,  like  the  voice  of  one  who  raves, 
That  laughter  of  the  loon ! 

We  called  to  him,  while  blindly  through  the  haze 
Uprose  the  meagre  moon  behind  us,  slow, 

So  dim,  the  fleet  of  boats  we  scarce  could  trace, 
Moored  lightly  just  below. 

We  called,  and  lo,  he  answered !  Half  in  fear 
We  sent  the  note  back.  Echoing  rock  and  bay 

Made  melancholy  music  far  and  near, 
Sadly  it  died  away. 


28  SEAWARD. 

That  schooner,  you  remember  ?     Flying  ghost ! 

Her  canvas  catching  every  wandering  beam, 
Aerial,  noiseless,  past  the  glimmering  coast 

She  glided  like  a  dream. 

Would  we  were  leaning  from  your  window  now, 
Together  calling  to  the  eerie  loon, 

The  fresh  wind  blowing  care  from  either  brow, 
This  sumptuous  night  of  June  ! 

So  many  sighs  load  this  sweet  inland  air, 
'Tis  hard  to  breathe,  nor  can  we  find  relief, 

However  lightly  touched  we  all  must  share 
This  nobleness  of  grief. 

But  sighs  are  spent  before  they  reach  your  ear ; 

Vaguely  they  mingle  with  the  water's  rune. 
No  sadder  sound  salutes  you  than  the  clear, 

Wild  laughter  of  the  loon. 


ROCK  WEEDS. 

So  bleak  these  shores,  wind-swept  and  all  the  year 
Washed  by  the  wild  Atlantic's  restless  tide, 

You  would  not  dream  that  flowers  the  woods  hold 

dear 
Amid  such  desolation  dare  abide. 

Yet  when  the  bitter  winter  breaks,  some  day, 
With  soft  winds  fluttering  her  garments  hern, 

Up  from  the  sweet  South  comes  the  lingering  May, 
Sets  the  first  wind-flower  trembling  on  its  stem  ; 

Scatters  her  violets  with  lavish  hands, 

White,  blue,  and  amber ;  calls  the  columbine, 

Till  like  clear  flame  in  lonely  nooks,  gay  bands 
Swinging  their  scarlet  bells,  obey  the  sign  ; 

Makes  buttercups  and  dandelions  blaze, 

And  throws  in  glimmering  patches  here  and  there 

The  little  eyebright's  pearls,  and  gently  lays 
The  impress  of  her  beauty  everywhere. 


30  ROCK  WEEDS. 

Later,  June  bids  the  sweet  wild  rose  to  blow, 
Wakes  from  its  dream  the  drowsy  pimpernel ; 

Unfolds  the  bindweed's  ivory  buds  that  glow 
As  delicately  blushing  as  a  shell. 

Then  purple  Iris  smiles,  and  hour  by  hour, 
The  fair  procession  multiplies  ;  and  soon, 

In  clusters  creamy  white,  the  elder-flower 

Waves  its  broad  disk  against  the  rising  moon. 

O'er  quiet  beaches  shelving  to  the  sea 

Tall  mulleins  sway,  and  thistles  ;  all  day  long 

Flows  in  the  wooing  water  dreamily, 

With  subtile  music  in  its  slumberous  song. 

Herb-robert  hears,  and  princess'-feather  bright, 
And  gold-thread  clasps  the  little  skull-cap  blue  ; 

And  troops  of  swallows,  gathering  for  their  flight, 
O'er  golden-rod  and  asters  hold  review. 

The  barren  island  dreams  in  flowers,  while  blow 
The    south  winds,   drawing   haze   o'er   sea   and 

land  ; 
V"et  the  great  heart  of  ocean,  throbbing  slow, 

Makes    the  frail    blossoms   vibrate  where   they 
stand ; 


ROCK  WEEDS.  31 

And  hints  of  heavier  pulses  soon  to  shake 
Its  mighty  breast  when  summer  is  no  more, 

And  devastating  waves  sweep  on  and  break, 
And  clasp  with  girdle  white  the  iron  shore. 

Close  folded,  safe  within  the  sheltering  seed, 
Blossom  and  bell  and  leafy  beauty  hide  j 

Nor  icy  blast,  nor  bitter  spray  they  heed, 
But  patiently  their  wondrous  change  abide. 

The  heart  of  God  through  his  creation  stirs, 
We  thrill  to  feel  it,  trembling  as  the  flowers 

That  die  to  live  again,  —  his  messengers, 

To  keep  faith  firm  in  these  sad  souls  of  ours. 

The  waves  of  Time  may  devastate  our  lives, 
The  frosts  of  age  may  check  our  failing  breath, 

They  shall  not  touch  the  spirit  that  survives 
Triumphant  over  doubt  and  pain  and  death. 


THE     SANDPIPER. 

ACROSS  the  narrow  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I 
And  fast  I  gather,  bit  by  bit, 

The  scattered  driftwood  bleached  and  dry. 
The  wild  waves  reach  their  hands  for  it, 

The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs  high, 
As  up  and  down  the  beach  we  flit,  — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Above  our  heads  the  sullen  clouds 

Scud  black  and  swift  across  the  sky ; 
Like  silent  ghosts  in  misty  shrouds 

Stand  out  the  white  light-houses  high. 
Almost  as  far  as  eye  can  reach 

I  see  the  close-reefed  vessels  fly, 
As  fast  we  flit  along  the  beach,  — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

I  watch  him  as  he  skims  along 

Uttering  his  sweet  and  mournful  cry. 


THE  SANDPIPER.  33 

He  starts  not  at  my  fitful  song, 

Or  flash  of  fluttering  drapery. 
He  has  no  thought  of  any  wrong ; 

He  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye. 
Stanch  friends  are  we,  well  tried  and  strong, 

The  little  sandpiper  and  I.  • 

Comrade,  where  wilt  thou  be  to-night 

When  the  loosed  storm  breaks  furiously  ? 
My  driftwood  fire  will  burn  so  bright ! 

To  what  warm  shelter  canst  thou  fly  ? 
I  do  not  fear  for  thee,  though  wroth 

The  tempest  rushes  through  the  sky : 
For  are  we  not  God's  children  both, 

Thou,  little  sandpiper,  and  I  ? 


TWILIGHT. 

SEPTEMBER'S  slender  crescent  grows  again 
Distinct  in  yonder  peaceful  evening  red, 
Clearer  the  stars  are  sparkling  overhead, 

And  all  the  sky  is  pure,  without  a  stain. 

Cool  blows  the  evening  wind  from  out  the  West 
And  bows  the  flowers,  the  last  sweet  flowers  that 

bloom, 
Pale  asters,  many  a  heavy-waving  plume 

Of  golden-rod  that  bends  as  if  opprest. 

The  summer's  songs  are  hushed.  Up  the  lone  shore 
The  weary  waves  wash  sadly,  and  a  grief 
Sounds  in  the  wind,  like  farewells  fond  and  brief: 

The  cricket's  chirp  but  makes  the  silence  more. 

Life's  autumn  comes ;  the  leaves  begin  to  fall ; 
The  moods  of  spring  and  summer  pass  away  5 
The  glory  and  the  rapture,  day  by  day, 

Depart,  and  soon  the  quiet  grave  folds  all. 


TWILIGHT.  35 

O  thoughtful  sky,  how  many  eyes  in  vain 
Are  lifted  to  your  beauty,  full  of  tears  ! 
How  many  hearts  go  back  through  all  the  years, 

Heavy  with  loss,  eager  with  questioning  pain, 

To  read  the  dim  Hereafter,  to  obtain 

One  glimpse  beyond  the  earthly  curtain,  where 
Their  dearest  dwell,  where  they  may  be  or  e'er 

September's  slender  crescent  shines  again  t 


THE  SWALLOW. 

THE  swallow  twitters  about  the  eaves; 

Blithely  she  sings,  and  sweet  and  clear  \ 
Around  her  climb  the  woodbine  leaves 

In  a  golden  atmosphere. 

The  summer  wind  sways  leaf  and  spray, 
That  catch  and  cling  to  the  cool  gray  wall  \ 

The  bright  sea  stretches  miles  away, 
And  the  noon  sun  shines  o'er  all. 

In  the  chamber's  shadow,  quietly, 

I  stand  and  worship  the  sky  and  the  leaves, 
The  golden  air  and  the  brilliant  sea, 

The  swallow  at  the  eaves. 

Like  a  living  jewel  she  sits  and  sings  ; 

Fain  would  I  read  her  riddle  aright, 
Fain  would  I  know  whence  her  rapture  springs, 

So  strong  in  a  thing  so  slight ! 


THE  SWALLOW.  37 

The  fine,  clear  fire  of  joy  that  steals 
Through  all  my  spirit  at  what  I  see 

In  the  glimpse  my  window's  space  reveals, — 
That  seems  no  mystery  ! 


But  scarce  for  her  joy  can  she  utter  her  song ; 

Yet  she  knows  not  the  beauty  of  skies  or  seas. 
Is  it  bliss  of  living,  so  sweet  and  strong  ? 

Is  it  love,  which  is  more  than  these  ? 

O  happy  creature  !  what  stirs  thee  so  ? 

A  spark  of  the  gladness  of  God  thou  art. 
Why  should  we  seek  to  find  and  to  know 

The  secret  of  thy  heart  ? 

Before  the  gates  of  his  mystery 

Trembling  we  knock  with  an  eager  hand  ; 
Silent  behind  them  waiteth  He ; 

Not  yet  may  we  understand. 

But  thrilling  throughout  the  universe 
Throbs  the  pulse  of  his  mighty  will, 

Till  we  gain  the  knowledge  of  joy  or  curse 
In  the  choice  of  good  or  ill. 


38  THE  SWALLOW. 

He  looks  from  the  eyes  of  the  little  child. 

And  searches  souls  with  their  gaze  so  clear ; 
To  the  heart  some  agony  makes  wild 

He  whispers,  "I  am  here." 


He  smiles  in  the  face  of  every  flower ; 

In  the  swallow's  twitter  of  sweet  content 
He  speaks,  and  we  follow  through  every  hour 

The  way  his  deep  thought  went. 

Here  should  be  courage  and  hope  and  faith ; 

Nought  has  escaped  the  trace  of  his  hand  ; 
And  a  voice  in  the  heart  of  his  silence  saith, 

One  day  we  shall  understand. 


A  GRATEFUL  HEART. 

LAST  night  I  stole  away  alone,  to  find 
A  mellow  crescent  setting  o'er  the  sea, 
And  lingered  in  its  light,  while  over  me 

Blew  fitfully  the  grieving  autumn  wind. 

And  somewhat  sadly  to  myself  I  said, 

"  Summer  is  gone,"  and  watched  how  bright  and 

fast 
Through  the  moon's  track  the  little  waves  sped 

past, — 
11  Summer  is  gone  !  her  golden  days  are  dead." 

Regretfully  I  thought,  "  Since  I  have  trod 
Earth's  ways  with  willing  or  reluctant  feet, 
Never  did  season  bring  me  days  more  sweet, 

Crowned  with  rare  joys  and  priceless  gifts  from  God. 

:i  And  they  are  gone :  they  will  return  no  more." 
The  slender  moon  went  down,  all  red  and  still : 
The  stars  shone  clear,  the  silent  dews  fell  chill ; 

The  waves  with  ceaseless  murmur  washed  the  shore. 


40  A    GRATEFUL  HEART. 

A  low  voice  spake  :  "  And  wherefore  art  thou  sad  ? 
Here  in  thy  heart  all  summer  folded  lies, 
And  smiles  in   sunshine  though  the  sweet  time 
dies : 

'Tis  thine  to  keep  forever  fresh  and  glad !  " 

Yea,  gentle  voice,  though  the  fair  days  depart, 
And  skies  grow  cold  above  the  restless  sea, 
God's  gifts  are  measureless,  and  there  shall  be 

Eternal  summer  in  the  grateful  heart. 


THE  SPANIARDS'  GRAVES 

AT   THE    ISLES    OF    SHOALS. 

O  SAILORS,  did  sweet  eyes  look  after  you 
The  day  you  sailed  away  from  sunny  Spain  ? 

Bright  eyes  that  followed  fading  ship  and  crew, 
Melting  in  tender  rain  ? 

Did  no  one  dream  of  that  drear  night  to  be, 

Wild  with  the  wind,  fierce  with  the  stinging  snow, 

When  on  yon  granite  point  that  frets  the  sea, 
The  ship  met  her  death-blow  ? 

Fifty  long  years  ago  these  sailors  died : 

(None  know  how  many  sleep  beneath  the  waves  :) 
Fourteen  gray  head-stones,  rising  side  by  side, 

Point  out  their  nameless  graves,  — 

Lonely,  unknown,  deserted,  but  for  me, 

And  the  wild  birds  that  flit  with  mournful  cry, 

And  sadder  winds,  and  voices  of  the  sea 
That  moans  perpetually. 


42  777^  SPANIARDS1    GRAVES. 

Wives,  mothers,  maidens,  wistfully,  in  vain 
Questioned  the  distance  for  the  yearning  sail, 

That,  leaning  landward,  should  have  stretched  again 
White  arms  wide  on  the  gale, 

To  bring  back  their  beloved.     Year  by  year, 

Weary  they  watched,  till  youth  and  beauty  passed, 

And  lustrous  eyes  grew  dim  and  age  grew  near, 
And  hope  was  dead  at  last. 

Still  summer  broods  o'er  that  delicious  land, 
Rich,  fragrant,  warm  with  skies  of  golden  glow : 

Live  any  yet  of  that  forsaken  band 
Who  loved  so  long  ago  ? 

O  Spanish  women,  over  the  far  seas, 

Could  I  but  show  you  where  your  dead  repose . 
Could  I  send  tidings  on  this  northern  breeze 

That  strong  and  steady  blows  ! 

Dear  dark-eyed  sisters,  you  remember  yet 
These  you  have  lost,  but  you  can  never  know 

One  stands  at  their  bleak  graves  whose  eyes  are  wet 
With  thinking  of  your  woe  ! 


WATCHING. 

IN  childhood's  season  fair, 
On  many  a  balmy,  moonless  summer  night, 
While  wheeled  the  light-house   arms  of  dark  and 
bright 

Far  through  the  humid  air ; 

How  patient  have  I  Been, 
Sitting  alone,  a  happy  little  maid, 
Waiting  to  see,  careless  and  unafraid, 

My  father's  boat  come  in  ; 

Close  to  the' water's  edge 
Holding  a  tiny  spark,  that  he  might  steer 
(So  dangerous  the  landing,  far  and  near,) 

Safe  past  the  ragged  ledge. 

I  had  no  fears,  —  not  one ; 
The  wild  wide  waste  of  water  leagues  around 
Washed  ceaselessly ;  there  was  no  human  sound, 

And  I  was  all  alone. 


44  WATCHING. 

But  Nature  was  so  kind  ! 
Like  a  dear  friend  I  loved  the  loneliness ; 
My  heart  rose  glad  as  at  some  sweet  caress 

When  passed  the  wandering  wind. 

Yet  it  was  joy  to  hear 
From   out   the    darkness,    sounds   grow   clear   at 

last, 
Of  rattling  rowlock,  and  of  creaking  mast, 

And  voices  drawing  near  ! 

"Is't  thou,  dear  father?  Say  ! " 
What  well  known  shout  resounded  in  reply, 
As  loomed  the  tall  sail,  smitten  suddenly 

With  the  great  light-house  ray ! 

I  will  be  patient  now, 

Dear  Heavenly  Father,  waiting  here  for  thee : 
I  know  the  darkness  holds  thee.     Shall  I  be 

Afraid,  when  it  is  Thou  ? 

On  thy  eternal  shore, 
In  pauses,  when  life's  tide  is  at  its  prime, 
I  hear  the  everlasting  rote  of  Time 

Beating  for  evermore. 


WATCHING. 

Shall  I  not  then  rejoice  ? 
O  never  lost  or  sad  should  child  of  thine 
Sit  waiting,  fearing  lest  there  come  no  sign, 

No  whisper  of  thy  voice  ! 


45 


IN  MAY. 

THAT  was  a  curlew  calling  overhead, 

That  fine,  clear  whistle  shaken  from  the  clouds : 
See  !  hovering  o'er  the  swamp  with  wings  outspread, 

He  sinks  where  at  its  edge  in  shining  crowds 
The  yellow  violets  dance  as  they  unfold, 
In  the  blithe  spring  wind,  all  their  green  and  gold. 

Blithe  South-wind,  spreading  bloom  upon  the  sea, 
Drawing  about  the  world  this  band  of  haze 

So  softly  delicate,  and  bringing  me 

A  touch  of  balm  that  like  a  blessing  stays ; 

Though  beauty  like  a  dream  bathes  sea  and  land, 

For  the  first  time  Death  holds  me  by  the  hand. 

Yet  none  the  less  the  swallows  weave  above 
Through  the  bright  air  a  web  of  light  and  song, 

And  calling  clear  and  sweet  from  cove  to  cove, 
The  sandpiper,  the  lonely  rocks  among, 

Makes  wistful  music,  and  the  singing  sea 

Sends  its  strong  chorus  upward  solemnly. 


IN  MAY.  47 

0  Mother  Nature,  infinitely  dear ! 
Vainly  I  search  the  beauty  of  thy  face, 

Vainly  thy  myriad  voices  charm  my  ear, 

I  cannot  gather  from  thee  any. trace 
Of  God's  intent.     Help  me  to  understand 
Why,  this  sweet  morn,  Death  holds  me  by  the  hand. 

1  watch  the  waves,  shoulder  to  shoulder  set, 
That  strive  and  vanish  and  are  seen  no  more. 

The  earth  is  sown  with  graves  that  we  forget, 
And  races  of  mankind  the  wide  world  o'er 
Rise,  strive,  and  vanish,  leaving  nought  behind, 
Like  changing  waves  swept  by  the  changing  wind. 

"  Hard-hearted,  cold,  and  blind,"  she  answers  me, 
"  Vexing  thy  soul  with  riddles  hard  to  guess  ! 

No  waste  of  any  atom  canst  thou  see, 
Nor  make  I  any  gesture  purposeless. 

Lift  thy  dim  eyes  up  to  the  conscious  sky ! 

God  meant  that  rapture  in  the  curlew's  cry. 

"  He  holds  his  whirling  worlds  in  check  ;  not  one 
May  from  its  awful  orbit  swerve  aside ; 

Yet  breathes  He  in  this  south  wind,  bids  the  sun 
Wake  the  fair  flowers  He  fashioned,  far  and  wide, 

And  this  strong  pain  thou  canst  not  understand 

Is  but  his  grasp  on  thy  reluctant  hand." 


A  SUMMER  DAY. 

AT  day-break  in  the  fresh  light,  joyfully 
The  fishermen  drew  in  their  laden  net ; 

The  shore  shone  rosy  purple  and  the  sea 
Was  streaked  with  violet ; 

And  pink  with  sunrise,  many  a  shadowy  sail 
Lay  southward,  lighting  up  the  sleeping  bay  j 

And  in  the  west  the  white  moon,  still  and  pale, 
Faded  before  the  day. 

Silence  was  everywhere.     The  rising  tide 
Slowly  filled  every  cove  and  inlet  small ; 

A  musical  low  whisper,  multiplied, 
You  heard,  and  that  was  all. 

No  clouds  at  dawn,  but  as  the  sun  climbed  higher, 
White  columns,  thunderous,  splendid,  up  the  sky 

Floated  and  stood,  heaped  in  his  steady  fire, 
A  stately  company. 


A  SUMMER  DAY.  49 

Stealing  along  the  coast  from  cape  to  cape 
The  weird  mirage  crept  tremulously  on, 

In  many  a  magic  change  and  wondrous  shape, 
Throbbing  beneath  the  sun. 

At  noon  the  wind  rose,  swept  the  glassy  sea 
To  sudden  ripple,  thrust  against  the  clouds 

A  strenuous  shoulder,  gathering  steadily 
Drove  them  before  in  crowds ; 

Till  all  the  west  was  dark,  and  inky  black 

The  level-ruffled  water  underneath, 
And  up  the  wind  cloud  tossed,  —  a  ghostly  rack, 

In  many  a  ragged  wreath. 

Then  sudden  roared  the  thunder,  a  great  peal 
Magnificent,  that  broke  and  rolled  away ; 

And  down  the  wind  plunged,  like  a  furious  keel,, 
Cleaving  the  sea  to  spray  ; 

And  brought  the  rain  sweeping  o'er  land  and  sea. 

And  then  was  tumult !    Lightning  sharp  and  keen. 
Thunder,  wind,  rain,  —  a  mighty  jubilee 

The  heaven  and  earth  between ! 
4 


5o  A  SUMMER  DAY. 

Loud  the  roused  ocean  sang,  a  chorus  grand  ; 

A  solemn  music  rolled  in  undertone 
Of  waves  that  broke  about  on  either  hand 

The  little  island  lone  ; 

Where,  joyful  in  His  tempest  as  His  calm, 
Held  in  the  hollow  of  that  hand  of  His, 

I  joined  with  heart  and  soul  in  God's  great  psalm, 
Thrilled  with  a  nameless  bliss. 

Soon  lulled  the  wind,  the  summer  storm  soon  died ; 

The  shattered  clouds  went  eastward,  drifting  slow  ; 
From  the  low  sun  the  rain-fringe  swept  aside, 

Bright  in  his  rosy  glow, 

And  wide  a  splendor  streamed  through  all  the  sky ; 

O'er  sea  and  land  one  soft,  delicious  blush, 
That  touched  the  gray  rocks  lightly,  tenderly  ; 

A  transitory  flush. 

Warm,  odorous  gusts  blew  off  the  distant  land, 
With  spice  of  pine-woods,  breath  of  hay  new-mown, 

O'er  miles  of  waves  and  sea  scents  cool  and  bland, 
Full  in  our  faces  blown. 


A   SUMMER  DAY.  51 

Slow  faded  the  sweet  light,  and  peacefully 
The  quiet  stars  came  out,  one  after  one  : 

The  holy  twilight  fell  upon  the  sea, 
The  summer  day  was  done. 

Such  unalloyed  delight  its  hours  had  given, 
Musing,  this  thought  rose  in  my  grateful  mind, 

That  God,  who  watches  all  things,  up  in  heaven, 
With  patient  eyes  and  kind, 

Saw  and  was  pleased,  perhaps,  one  child  of  his 
Dared  to  be  happy  like  the  little  birds, 

Because  He  gave  his  children  days  like  this 
Rejoicing  beyond  words ; 

Dared,  lifting  up  to  Him  untroubled  eyes 
In  gratitude  that  worship  is,  and  prayer, 

Sing  and  be  glad  with  ever  new  surprise, 
He  made  his  world  so  fair  ! 


REGRET. 

SOFTLY  Death  touched  her,  and  she  passed  away 
Out  of  this  glad,  bright  world  she  made  more  fair, 

Sweet  as  the  apple-blossoms,  when  in  May 
The  orchards  flush,  of  summer  grown  aware. 

All  that  fresh,  delicate  beauty  gone  from  sight, 
That  gentle,  gracious  presence  felt  no  more  ! 

How  must  the  house  be  emptied  of  delight, 

What  shadows  on  the  threshold  she  passed  o'er ! 

She  loved  me.     Surely  I  was  grateful,  yet 
I  could  not  give  her  back  all  she  gave  me. 

Ever  I  think  of  it  with  vague  regret, 
Musing  upon  a  summer  by  the  sea  : 

Remembering  troops  of  merry  girls  who  pressed 
About  me  —  clinging  arms  and  tender  eyes, 

And  love,  like  scent  of  roses.     With  the  rest 
She  came,  to  fill  my  heart  with  new  surprise. 


REGRET.  53 

The  day  I  left  them  all,  and  sailed  away, 

While  o'er  the  calm  sea,  'neath  the  soft  gray  sky 

They  waved  farewell,  she  followed  me,  to  say 
Yet  once  again  her  wistful,  sweet  "good-bye." 

At  the  boat's  bow  she  drooped ;  her  light-green  dress 
Swept  o'er  the  skiff  in  many  a  graceful  fold, 

Her  glowing  face,  bright  with  a  mute  caress, 
Crowned  with  her  lovely  hair  of  shadowy  gold  : 

And  tears  she  dropped  into  the  crystal  brine 
For  me,  unworthy  —  as  we  slowly  swung 

Free  of  the  mooring.     Her  last  look  was  mine, 
Seeking  me  still  the  motley  crowd  among. 

O  tender  memory  of  the  dead  I  hold 

So  precious  through  the  fret  and  change  of  years  ! 
Were  I  to  live  till  Time  itself  grew  old, 

The  sad  sea  would  be  sadder  for  those  tears. 


BEFORE  SUNRISE. 

THIS  grassy  gorge,  as  daylight  failed  last  night, 
I  traversed  toward  the  west,  where,  thin  and  young, 

Bent  like  Diana's  bow  and  silver  bright, 
Half  lost  in  rosy  haze,  a  crescent  hung. 

I  paused  upon  the  beach's  upper  edge  : 
The  violet  east  all  shadowy  lay  behind  ; 

Southward  the  light-house  glittered  o'er  the  ledge, 
And  lightly,  softly  blew  the  western  wind. 

And  at  my  feet,  between  the  turf  and  stone, 
Wild  roses,  bayberry,  purple  thistles  tall, 

And  pink  herb-robert  grew,  where  shells  were  strown, 
And  morning-glory  vines  climbed  over  all. 

I  stooped  the  closely  folded  buds  to  note, 
That  gleamed  in  the  dim  light  mysteriously, 

While  full  of  whispers  of  the  far  off  rote, 
Summer's  enchanted  dusk  crept  o'er  the  sea. 


BEFORE  SUNRISE.  55 

And  sights  and  sounds  and  sea-scents  delicate, 
So  wrought  upon  my  soul  with  sense  of  bliss, 

Happy  I  sat  as  if  at  heaven's  gate, 

Asking  on  earth  no  greater  joy  than  this. 

And  now,  at  dawn,  upon  the  beach  again, 
Kneeling  I  wait  the  coming  of  the  sun, 

Watching  the  looser-folded  buds,  and  fain 
To  see  the  marvel  of  their  day  begun. 

All  the  world  lies  so  dewy-fresh  and  still ! 

Whispers  so  gently  all  the  water  wide, 
Hardly  it  breaks  the  silence  :  from  the  hill 

Come  clear  bird-voices  mingling  with  the  tide. 

Sunset  or  dawn  :  which  is  the  loveliej*  ?    Lo  ! 

My  darlings,  sung  to  all  the  balmy  night 
By  summer  waves  and  softest  winds  that  blow, 

Begin  to  feel  the  thrilling  of  the  light ! 

Red  lips  of  roses  waiting  to  be  kissed 

By  early  sunshine,  soon  in  smiles  will  break. 

But  O,  ye  morning-glories,  that  keep  tryst 
With  the  first  ray  of  day-break,  ye  awake ! 


56  BEFORE  SUNRISE. 

O  bells  of  triumph,  ringing  noiseless  peals 

Of  unimagined  music  to  the  day  ! 
Almost  I  could  believe  each  blossom  feels  - 

The  same  delight  that  sweeps  my  soul  away. 

O  bells  of  triumph  !  delicate  trumpets,  thrown 
Heavenward  and  earthward,  turned   east,  west, 

north,  south, 
In  lavish  beauty,  who  through  you  has  blown 

This   sweet   cheer  of   the   morning  with    calm 
mouth  ? 

'Tis    God    who   breathes    the   triumph ;  He    who 
wrought 

The  tender  curves,  and  laid  the  tints  divine 
Along  the  lovely  lines  j  the  Eternal  Thought 

That  troubles  all  our  lives  with  wise  design. 

Yea,  out  of  pain  and  death  his  beauty  springs, 
And  out  of  doubt  a  deathless  confidence  : 

Though  we  are  shod  with  leaden  cares,  our  wings 
Shall  lift  us  yet  out  of  our  deep  suspense  ! 

Thou  great  Creator !     Pardon  us  who  reach 
For  other  heaven  beyond  this  world  of  thine. 


BEFORE  SUNRISE.  57 

This  matchless  world,  where  thy  least  touch  doth 

teach 
Thy  solemn  lessons  clearly,  line  on  line. 

And  help  us  to  be  grateful,  we  who  live 
Such  sordid,  fretful  lives  of  discontent, 

Nor  see  the  sunshine  nor  the  flower,  nor  strive 
To  find  the  love  thy  bitter  chastening  meant. 


BY  THE  ROADSIDE. 

DROPPED  the  warm  rain  from  the  brooding  sky 

Softly  all  the  summer  afternoon  ; 
Up  the  road  I  loitered  carelessly, 

Glad  to  be  alive  in  blissful  June. 

Though  so  gray  the  sky,  and  though  the  mist 
Swept  the  hills  and  half  their  beauty  hid ; 

Though    the   scattering    drops   the    broad   leaves 

kissed, 
And  no  ray  betwixt  the  vapor  slid, 

Yet  the  daisies  tossed  their  white  and  gold 

In  the  quiet  fields  on  either  side, 
And  the  green  gloom  deepened  in  the  old 

Walnut  trees  that  flung  their  branches  wide ; 

And  the  placid  river  wound  away 

Westward  to  the  hills  through  meadows  fair, 
Flower- fringed  and  starred,  while  blithe  and  gay 

Called  the  blackbirds  through  the  balmy  air. 


BY  THE  ROADSIDE.  59 

Right  and  left  I  scanned  the  landscape  round, 
Every  shape,  and  scent,  ar*i  wild  bird's  call, 

Every  color,  curve,  and  gentle  sound, 
Deep  into  my  heart  I  gathered  all. 

Up  I  looked,  and  down  upon  the  sod 

Sprinkled  thick  with  violets  blue  and  bright , 

"  Surely,  '  Through  his  garden  walketh  God,'  " 
Low  I  whispered,,  full  of  my  delight. 

Like  a  vision,  on  the  path  before, 

Came  a  little  rosy,  sun-browned  maid, 

Straying  toward  me  from  her  cottage  door, 
Paused,  up-looking  shyly,  half  afraid. 

Never  word  she  spake,  but  gazing  so, 

Slow  a  smile  rose  to  her  clear  brown  eyes, 

Overflowed  her  face  with  such  a  glow 

That  I  thrilled  with  sudden,  sweet  surprise. 

Here  was  sunshine  'neath  the  cloudy  skies ! 

Low  I  knelt  to  bring  her  face  to  mine : 
Sweeter,  brighter  grew  her  shining  eyes, 

Yet  she  gave  me  neither  word  nor  sign. 


60  BY  THE  ROADSIDE. 

But  within  her  look  a  blessing  beamed : 
Meek  I  grew  before  it :  was  it  just  ? 

Was  I  \\orthy  this  pure  light  that  streamed? 
Such  approval,  and  such  love  and  trust ! 

Half  the  flowers  I  carried  in  my  hands, 
Lightly  in  her  pretty  arms  I  laid  : 

Silent,  but  as  one  who  understands, 

Clasped  them  close  the  rosy  little  maid. 

Fair  behind  the  honeysuckle  spray 
Shone  her  innocent,  delightful  face  ! 

Then  I  rose  and  slowly  went  my  way, 
Left  her  standing,  lighting  all  the  place. 

While  her  golden  look  stole  after  me, 

Lovelier  bloomed  the  violets  where  I  trod: 

More  divine  earth's  beauty  seemed  to  be, 
"  Through  his  garden  visibly  walked  God." 


SORROW. 

UPON  my  lips  she  laid  her  touch  divine, 
And  merry  speech  and  careless  laughter  died ; 

She  fixed  her  melancholy  eyes  on  mine, 
And  would  not  be  denied. 

I  saw  the  west- wind  loose  his  cloudlets  white 
In  flocks,  careering  through  the  April  sky, 

I  could  not  sing  though  joy  was  at  its  height, 
For  she  stood  silent  by. 

I  watched  the  lovely  evening  fade  away  ; 

A  mist  was  lightly  drawn  across  the  stars ; 
She  broke  my  quiet  dream,  I  heard  her  say, 

"  Behold  your  prison  bars  ! 

"  Earth's  gladness  shall  not  satisfy  your  soul, 
This  beauty  of  the  world  in  which  you  live, 

The  crowning  grace  that  sanctifies  the  whole, 
That,  I  alone  can  give." 


62  SORROW. 

I  heard  and  shrank  away  from  her  afraid  ; 

But  still  she  held  me  and  would  still  abide  ; 
Youth's  bounding  pulses  slackened  and  obeyed, 

With  slowly  ebbing  tide. 

"  Look  thou  beyond  the  evening  star,"  she  said, 
"  Beyond  the  changing  splendors  of  the  day ; 
Accept  the  pain,  the  weariness,  the  dread, 
Accept  and  bid  me  stay !  " 

I  turned  and  clasped  her  close  with  sudden  strength . 

And  slowly,  sweetly,  I  became  aware 
Within  my  arms  God's  angel  stood  at  length, 

White-robed  and  calm  and  fair. 

And  now  I  look  beyond  the  evening  star, 
Beyond  the  changing  splendors  of  the  day, 

Knowing  the  pain  He  sends  more  precious  far, 
More  beautiful,  than  they. 


NOVEMBER. 

THERE  is  no  wind  at  all  to-night 

To  dash  the  drops  against  the  pane ; 

No  sound  abroad,  nor  any  light, 
And  sadly  falls  the  autumn  rain; 

There  is  no  color  in  the  world, 
No  lovely  tint  on  hill  or  plain ; 

The  summer's  golden  sails  are  furled. 
And  sadly  falls  the  autumn  rain. 

The  Earth  lies  tacitly  beneath, 
As  it  were  dead  to  joy  or  pain  : 

It  does  not  move,  it  does  not  breathe,  — 
And  sadly  falls  the  autumn  rain. 

And  all  my  heart  is  patient  too, 
I  wait  till  it  shall  wake  again  ; 

The  songs  of  spring  shall  sound  anew, 
Though  sadly  falls  the  autumn  rain. 


COURAGE. 

BECAUSE  I  hold  it  sinful  to  despond, 

And  will  not  let  the  bitterness  of  life 
Blind  me  with  burning  tears,  but  look  beyond 

Its  tumult  and  its  strife  ; 

Because  I  lift  my  head  above  the  mist, 

Where  the  sun  shines  and  the  broad  breezes  blow, 
By  every  ray  and  every  rain-drop  kissed 

That  God's  love  doth  bestow ; 

Think  you  I  find  no  bitterness  at  all  ? 

No  burden  to  be  borne,  like  Christian's  pack  ? 
Think  you  there  are  no  ready  tears  to  fall 

Because  I  keep  them  back  ? 

Why  should  I  hug  life's  ills  with  cold  reserve, 
To  curse  myself  and  all  who  love  me  ?  Nay  ! 

A  thousand  times  more  good  than  I  deserve 
God  gives  me  every  day. 


COURAGE.  65 

And  in  each  one  of  these  rebellious  tears 

Kept  bravely  back,  He  makes  a  rainbow  shine ; 

Grateful  I  take  his  slightest  gift,  no  fears 
Nor  any  doubts  are  mine. 

Dark  skies  must  clear,  and  when  the  clouds  are  past. 
One  golden  day  redeems  a  weary  year ; 

Patient  I  listen,  sure  that  sweet  at  last 
Will  sound  his  voice  of  cheer. 

Then  vex  me  not  with  chiding.     Let  me  be. 

I  must  be  glad  and  grateful  to  the  end. 
I  grudge  you  not  your  cold  and  darkness,  —  me 

The  powers  of  light  befriend. 


REMEMBRANCE. 

FRAGRANT  and  soft  the  summer  wind  doth  blow. 
Weary  I  lie,  with  heavy,  half-shut  eyes, 
And  watch,  while  wistful  thoughts  within  me  rise, 

The  curtain  idly  swaying  to  and  fro. 

There  comes  a  sound  of  household  toil  from  far, 
A  woven  murmur ;  voices  shrill  and  sweet, 
Clapping  of  doors,  and  restless  moving  feet, 

And  tokens  faint  of  fret,  and  noise,  and  jar. 

Without,  the  broad  Earth  shimmers  in  the  glare, 
Through  the  clear  noon  high  rides  the  blazing  sun, 
The  birds  are  hushed  ;  the  cricket's  chirp  alone 

With  tremulous  music  cleaves  the  drowsy  air. 

I  think,  —  "  Past  the  gray  rocks  the  wavelets  run  ; 
The  gold-brown  sea-weed  drapes  the  ragged  ledge 
And  brooding,  silent,  at  the  water's  edge 

The  white  gull  sitteth,  shining  in  the  sun." 


SONG. 

WE  sail  toward  evening's  lonely  star 

That  trembles  in  the  tender  blue  ; 
One  single  cloud,  a  dusky  bar, 

Burnt  with  dull  carmine  through  and  through, 
Slow  smouldering  in  the  summer  sky, 

Lies  low  along  the  fading  west. 
How  sweet  to  watch  its  splendors  die, 

Wave-cradled  thus  and  wind-caressed  ! 

The  soft  breeze  freshens,  leaps  the  spray 

To  kiss  our  cheeks,  with  sudden   cheer ; 
Upon  the  dark  edge  of  the  bay 

Light-houses  kindle,  far  and  near, 
And  through  the  warm  deeps  of  the  sky 

Steal  faint  star-clusters,  while  we  rest 
In  deep  refreshment,  thou   and  I, 

Wave-cradled  thus  and  wind-caressed. 

How  like  a  dream  are  earth  and  heaven, 
Star-beam  and  darkness,  sky  and  sea ; 

Thy  face,  pale  in  the  shadowy  even, 
Thy  quiet  eyes  that  gaze  on  me  ! 


68  SONG. 

O  realize  the  moment's  charm, 

Thou  dearest!    we  are  at  life's  best, 

Folded  in  God's  encircling  arm, 

Wave-cradled  thus  and  wind-caressed. 


A   TRYST. 

FROM  out  the  desolation  of  the  North 

An  iceberg  took  its  way, 
From  its  detaining  comrades  breaking  forth, 

And  travelling  night  and  day. 

At  whose  command  ?     Who  bade  it  sail  the  deep 

With  that  resistless  force? 
Who  made  the  dread  appointment  it  must  keep  ? 

Who  traced  its  awful  course? 

To  the  warm  airs  that  stir  in  the  sweet  South, 

A  good  ship  spread  her  sails ; 
Stately  she  passed  beyond  the  harbor's  mouth 

Chased  by  the  favoring  gales ; 

And  on  her  ample  decks  a  happy  crowd 

Bade  the  fair  land  good-by  ; 
Clear  shone  the  day,  with  not  a  single  cloud 

In  all  the  peaceful  sky. 


70  A    TRYST. 

Brave  men,  sweet  women,  little  children  bright, 

For  all  these  she  made  room, 
And  with  her  freight  of  beauty  and  delight 

She  went  to  meet  her  doom. 

Storms  buffeted  the  iceberg,  spray  was  swept 

Across  its  loftiest  height ; 
Guided  alike  by  storm  and  calm,  it  kept 

Its  fatal  path  aright. 

Then  warmer  waves  gnawed  at  its  crumbling  base, 

As  if  in  piteous  plea ; 
The  ardent  sun  sent  slow  tears  clown  its  face, 

Soft  flowing  to  the  sea. 

Dawn  kissed  it  with  her  tender  rose  tints,  Eve 

Bathed  it  in  violet, 
The  wistful  color  o'er  it  seemed  to  grieve 

With  a  divine  regret. 

Whether  Day  clad  its  clefts  in  rainbows  dim 

And  shadowy  as  a  dream, 
Or  Night  through  lonely  spaces  saw  it  swim 

White  in  the  moonlight's  gleam, 


A    TRYST.  •       71 

Ever  Death  rode  upon  its  solemn  heights, 

Ever  his  watch  he  kept ; 
Cold  at  its  heart  through  changing  days  and  nights 

Its  changeless  purpose  slept. 

And  where  afar  a  smiling  coast  it  passed, 

Straightway  the  air  grew  chill ; 
Dwellers  thereon  perceived  a  bitter  blast, 

A  vague  report  of  ill. 

Like  some  imperial  creature,  moving  slow, 

Meanwhile,  with  matchless  grace, 
The  stately  ship,  unconscious  of  her  foe, 

Drew  near  the  trysting  place. 

For  still  the  prosperous  breezes  followed  her, 

And  half  the  voyage  was  o'er, 
In  many  a  breast  glad  thoughts  began  to  stir 

Of  lands  that  lay  before. 

And  human  hearts  with  longing  love  were  dumb, 

That  soon  should  cease  to  beat, 
Thrilled  with  the  hope  of  meetings  soon  to  come, 

And  lost  in  memories  sweet. 


72  A    TRYST. 

Was  not  the  weltering  waste  of  water  wide 

Enough  for  both  to  sail? 
What  drew  the  two  together  o'er  the  tide, 

Fair  ship  and  iceberg  pale? 

There  came  a  night  with  neither  moon  nor  star, 

Clouds  draped  the  sky  in  black  ; 
With  fluttering  canvas  reefed  at  every  spar, 

And  weird  fire  in  her  track, 

The  ship  swept  on ;    a  wild  wind  gathering  fast 

Drove  her  at  utmost  speed. 
Bravely  she  bent  before  the  fitful  blast 

That  shook  her  like  a  reed. 

O  helmsman,  turn  thy  wheel !    Will  no  surmise 
Cleave  through  the  midnight  drear? 

No  warning  of  the  horrible  surprise 
Reach  thine  unconscious  ear? 

She  rushed  upon  her  ruin.     Not  a  flash 

Broke  up  the  waiting  dark  j 
Dully  through  wind  and  sea  one  awful  crash 

Sounded,  with  none  to  mark. 


A    TRYST. 


73 


Scarcely  her  crew  had  time  to  clutch  despair, 

So  swift  the  work  was  done : 
Ere  their  pale  lips  could  frame  a  speechless  prayer, 

They  perished,  every  one ! 


IMPRISONED. 

LIGHTLY  she  lifts  the  large,  pure,  luminous  shell, 
Poises  it  in  her  strong  and  shapely  hand. 

"  Listen,"  she  says,  "  it  has  a  tale  to  tell, 
Spoken  in  language  you  may  understand." 

Smiling,  she  holds  it  at  my  dreaming  ear  : 
The  old,  delicious  murmur  of  the  sea 

Steals  like  enchantment  through  me,  and  I  hear 
Voices  like  echoes  of  eternity. 

She  stirs  it  softly.     Lo,  another  speech  ! 

In  one  of  its  dim  chambers,  shut  from  sight, 
Is  sealed  the  water  that  has  kissed  the  beach 

Where  the  far  Indian  Ocean  leaps  in  light. 

Those  laughing  ripples,  hidden  evermore 
In  utter  darkness,  plaintively  repeat 

Their  lapsing  on  the  glowing  tropic  shore, 
In  melancholy  whispers  low  and  sweet 


IMPRISONED.  75 

O  prisoned  wave  that  may  not  see  the  sun  ! 

O  voice  that  never  may  be  comforted  ! 
You  cannot  break  the  web  that  Fate  has  spun  ; 

Out  of  your  world  are  light  and  gladness  fled. 

The  red  dawn  nevermore  shall  tremble  far 
Across  the  leagues  of  radiant  brine  to  you  • 

You  shall  not  sing  to  greet  the  evening  star, 
Nor  dance  exulting  under  heaven's  clear  blue. 

Inexorably  woven  is  the  weft 

That  shrouds  from  you  all  joy  but  memory  : 
Only  this  tender,  low  lament  is  left 

Of  all  the  sumptuous  splendor  of  the  sea. 


PRESAGE. 

IF,  some  day,  I  should  seek  those. eyes 
So  gentle  now,  —  and  find  the  strange, 
Pale  shadow  of  a  coming  change, 

To  chill  me  with  sad  surprise ; 

Shouldst  thou  recall  what  thou  hast  given, 
And  turn  me  slowly  cold  and  dumb, 
And  thou  thyself  again  become 

Remote  as  any  star  in  heaven  ; 

Would  the  sky  ever  seem  again 
Perfectly  clear?     Would  the  serene, 
Sweet  face  of  nature  steal  between 

This  grief  and  me,  to  dull  its  pain  ? 

O  not  for  many  a  weary  day 
Would  sorrow  soften  to  regret, 
And  many  a  sun  would  rise  and  set 

Ere  I,  with  cheerful  heart,  could  say 


PRESAGE.  77 

"  All  undeserved  it  came.     To-day 

God  takes  it  back  again,  because 

Too  beautiful  a  thing  it  was 
For  such  as  I  to  keep  for  aye." 

And  ever,  through  the  coming  years, 

My  star,  remote  in  happy  skies, 

Would  seem  more  heavenly  fair  through  eyes 
Yet  tremulous  with  unfallen  tears. 


MIDSUMMER  MIDNIGHT. 

THE  wide,  still,  moonlight  water  miles  away, 
Stretches  in  lonely  splendor.     Whispers  creep 

About  us  from  the  midnight  wind,  and  play 
Among    the    flowers    that    breathe  so  sweet  in 
sleep  ; 

A  soft  touch  sways  the  milk-white,  stately  phlox, 

And  on  its  slender  stem  the  poppy  rocks. 

Fair  faces  turn  to  watch  the  dusky  sea, 

And  clear  eyes  brood  upon  the  path  of  light 

The  white  moon  makes,  the  while  deliciously, 
Like  some  vague,  tender  memory  of  delight, 

Or  like  some  half  remembered,  dear  regret, 

Rises  the  odor  of  the  mignonnette. 

Midsummer  glories,  moonlight,  flowers  asleep, 
And  delicate  perfume,  mystic  winds  that  blow 

Soft-breathing,  full  of  balm,  and  tlie  great  deep 
In  leagues  of  shadow  swaying  to  and  fro  ; 

And  loving  human   thought  to  mark  it  all, 

And  human  hearts  that  to  each  other  call ; 


MIDSUMMER  MIDNIGHT.  79 

Needs  the  enchantment  of  the  summer  night 
Another  touch  to  make  it  perfect  ?     Hark  ! 

What  sudden  shaft  of  sound,  like  piercing  light, 
Strikes  on   the  ear  athwart  the  moonlit  dark  ? 

Like  some  keen  shock  of  joy  is  heard  within 

The  wondrous  music  of  the  violin. 

It  is  as  if  dumb  Nature  found  a  voice, 

And  spoke  with  power,    though  in  an  unknown 

tongue. 
What  kinship  has  the  music  with  the  noise 

Of  waves,  or  winds,  or  with  the  flowers,  slow- 
swung 

Like  censers  to  and  fro  upon  the   air, 
Or  with  the  shadow,  or  the  moonlight  fair  ? 

And  yet  it  seems  some  subtile  link  exists, 
We  know  not  how.     And  over  every  phase 

Of  thought  and  feeling  wandering  as  it  lists, 
Playing  upon  us  as  the  west  wind  plays 

Over  the  wind-harp,  the  subduing  strain 

Sweeps  with  resistless  power  of  joy  and  pain. 

Slow  ebbs  the  golden  tide  and  all  is  still. 

Ask  the  magician  at  whose  touch  awoke 
That  mighty,  penetrating,  prisoned  will, 

The  matchless  voice  that  so  divinely  spoke, 


8o  MIDSUMMER  MIDNIGHT. 

Kindling  to  fresher  life  the  listening  soul, 

What  daring  thought  such  fire  from  heaven  stole? 

He  cannot  tell  us  how  the  charm  was  wrought, 
Though  in  his  hand  he  holds  the  potent  key, 

Nor  read  the  spell  that  to  the  sweet  night  brought 
This  crown  of  rapture  and  of  mystery, 

And  lifted  every  heart,  and  drew  away 

All  trace  of  worldliness  that  marred  the  day. 

But  every  head  is  bowed.     We  watch  the  sea 
With  other  eyes,  as  if  some  hint  of  bliss 

Spoke  to  us  through  the  yearning  melody, 

Of  glad  new  worlds,  of  brighter  lives  than  this  ; 

While  still  the  milk-white,  stately  phlox  waves  slow, 

And  drowsily  the  poppy  rocks  below. 


APRIL  DAYS. 

O  THE  ( sweet,  sweet  lapsing  of  the  tide, 

Through  the  still  hours  of  the  golden  afternoon  ! 

O  the  warm,  red  sunshine,  far  and  wide, 

Falling  soft  as  in  the  crowning  days  of  June  ! 

Calls  the  gray  sandpiper  from  the  quiet  shore, 
Weave    the    swallows    light    and   music  through 

the  air, 

Chants  the  sparrow  all  his  pleasure  o'er  and  o'er, 
Sings  and  smiles  the  Spring,  and  sparkles  every- 
where. 

Well  I  know  that  death  and  pain  to  all  are  near, 
That,  save  sorrow,  naught  is  certain  this  world 
gives  ; 

Yet  my  heart  stirs  with  the  budding  of  the  year, 
And  rejoices  still  with  everything  that  lives. 

Fold  me  then,  O  South-wind  !     God  is  good. 

Gladly,  gratefully  I  take  thy  sweet  caress. 
Call,  sandpiper,  from  thy  solitude, 

Every  sight  and  sound  has  power  to  bless. 
6 


82 


APRIL  DAYS. 


O  the  sweet,  sweet  lapsing  of  the  tide, 

Through  the  still  hours  of  the  golden  afternoon ! 

Nor  death,  nor  pain,  nor  sorrow  shall  abide, 
For  God  blesses  all  his  children,  late  or  soon. 


HEARTBREAK  HILL. 

IN  Ipswich  town,  not  far  from  the  sea, 

Rises  a  hill  which  the  people  call 
Heartbreak  Hill,  and  its  history 

Is  an  old,  old  legend,  known  to  all. 

The  self-same  dreary,  worn-out  tale 
Told  by  all  peoples  in  every  clime, 

Still  to  be  told  till  the  ages  fail, 

And  there  comes  a  pause  in  the  march  of  Time. 

It  was  a  sailor  who  won  the  heart 

Of  an  Indian  maiden,  lithe  and  young  ; 

And  she  saw  him  over  the  sea  depart, 
While  sweet  in  her  ear  his  promise  rung  ; 

For  he  cried,  as  he  kissed  her  wet  eyes  dry, 
"  I'll  come  back,  sweetheart ;  keep  your  faith  !  " 

She  said,  "  I  will  watch  while  the  moons  go  by  :  " 
Her  love  was  stronger  than  life  or  death. 


84  HEARTBREAK  HILL. 

So  this  poor  dusk  Ariadne  kept 

Her  watch  from  the  hill-top  rugged   and  steep ; 
Slowly  the  empty  moments  crept 

While  she  studied  the  changing  face  of  the  deep, 

Fastening  her  eyes  upon  every  speck 
That  crossed  the  ocean  within  her  ken  ; 

Might  not  her  lover  be  walking  the  deck, 
Surely  and  swiftly  returning  again? 

The  Isles  of  Shoals  loomed,  lonely  and  dim, 
In  the  northeast  distance  far  and  gray, 

And  on  the  horizon's  uttermost  rim 

The  low  rock  heap  of  Boon  Island  lay. 

And  north  and  south  and  west  and  east 

Stretched  sea  and  land  in  the  blinding  light, 

Till  evening  fell,  and  her  vigil  ceased, 
And  many  a  hearth-glow  lit  the  night, 

To  mock  those  set  and  glittering  eyes 
Fast  growing  wild  as  her  hope  went  out. 

Hateful  seemed  earth,  and  the  hollow  skies, 
Like  her  own  heart,  empty  of  aught  but  doubt. 


HEARTBREAK  HILL.  85 

O,  but  the  weary,  merciless  days, 

With  the  sun  above,  with  the  sea  afar,  — 

No  change  in  her  fixed  and  wistful  gaze 
From  the  morning-red  to  the  evening  star  ! 

O,  the  winds  that  blew,  and  the  birds  that  sang, 
The    calms    that    smiled,    and    the    storms    that 

rolled, 

The  bells  from  the  town  beneath,  that  rang 
Through    the    summer's    heat    and    the   winter's 
cold! 

The  flash  of  the  plunging  surges  white, 
The  soaring  gull's  wild  boding  cry, 

She  was  weary  of  all ;  there  was  no  delight 
In  heaven  or  earth,  and  she  longed  to  die. 

What  was  it  to  her  though  the  Dawn  should  paint 
With  delicate  beauty  skies  and  seas  ? 

But  the  sweet,  sad  sunset  splendors  faint 
Made  her  soul  sick  with  memories: 

Drowning  in  sorrowful  purple  a  sail 

In  the  distant  east,  where  shadows  grew, 

Till  the  twilight  shrouded  it,  cold  and  pale, 
And  the  tide  of  her  anguish  rose  anew. 


86  HEARTBREAK  HILL. 

Like  a  slender  statue  carved  of  stone 
She  sat,  with  hardly  motion  or  breath. 

She  wept  no  tears  and  she  made  no  moan, 
But  her  love  was  stronger  than  life  or  death. 

He  never  came  back  !     Yet  faithful  still, 
She  watched  from  the  hill-top  her  life  away. 

And  the  townsfolk  christened  it  Heartbreak  Hill, 
And  it  bears  the  name  to  this  very  day. 


THE  SONG-SPARROW. 

IN  this  sweet,  tranquil  afternoon  of  Spring, 
While  the  low  sun  declines  in  the  clear  west, 

I   sit  and  hear  the  blithe  song-sparrow  sing 
His  strain  of  rapture  not  to  be  suppressed  : 

Pondering  life's  problem  strange,  while  death  draws 
near,  — 

I  listen  to  his  dauntless  song  of  cheer. 

His  shadow  flits  across  the  quiet  stone  : 

Like  that  brief  transit  is  my  space  of  days ; 

For,  like  a  flower's  faint  perfume,  youth  is  flown 
Already,  and  there  rests  on  all  life's  ways 

A  dimness ;  closer  my  beloved  I  clasp, 

For  all  dear  things  seem  slipping  from  my  grasp. 

Death  touches  all ;  the  light  of  loving  eyes 
Goes  out  in  darkness,  comfort  is  withdrawn  ; 

Lonely,  and  lonelier  still  the  pathway  lies, 

Going  toward  the  fading  sunset  from  the  dawn  : 

Yet  hark  !  while  those  fine  notes  the  silence  break 

As  if  all  trouble  were  some  grave  mistake  ! 


88  THE  SONG-SPARROW. 

Thou  little  bird*  how  canst  thou  thus  rejoice, 
As  if  the  world  had  known  nor  sin  nor  curse  ? 

God  never  meant  to  mock  us  with  that  voice  ! 
That  is  the  key-note  of  the  universe, 

That  song  of  perfect  trust,  of  perfect  cheer, 

Courageous,  constant,  free  of  doubt  or  fear. 

My  little  helper,  ah,  my  comrade   sweet, 
My  old  companion  in  that  far  off  time 

When  on  life's  threshold  childhood's  winged  feet 
Danced  in  the  sunrise  !    Joy  was  at  its  prime 

When  all  my  heart  responded  to  thy  song, 

Unconscious  of  earth's  discords  harsh  and  strong. 

Now,  grown  aweary,  sad  with  change  and  loss, 
With  the  enigma  of  myself  dismayed  ; 

Poor,  save  in  deep  desire  to  bear  the  cross 
God's  hand  on  his  defenseless  creatures  laid, 

With  patience,  —  here  I  sit  this  eve  of  spring, 

And  listen  with  bowed  head,  while  thou  dost  sing. 

And  slowly  all  my  soul  with  comfort  fills, 

And  the  old  hope  revives  and  courage  grows  ; 

Up  the  deserted  shore  a  fresh  tide  thrills, 

And  like  a  dream  the  dark  mood  melts  and  goes, 

And  with  thy  joy  again  will  I  rejoice  : 

God  never  meant  to  mock  us  with  that  voice  ! 


IN    KITTERY    CHURCHYARD. 

"  Mary,  wife  of  Charles  Chauncy,  died  April  23,  1758,  in  the 
24th  year  of  her  age." 

CRUSHING  the  scarlet  strawberries  in  the  grass, 
I  kneel  to  read  the  slanting  stone.     Alas  ! 
How  sharp  a  sorrow  speaks  !     A  hundred  years 
And   more    have  vanished,  with    their  smiles   and 

tears, 

Since  here  was  laid,  upon  an  April  day, 
Sweet  Mary  Chauncy  in  the  grave  away,  — 
A  hundred  years  since  here  her  lover  stood 
Beside  her  grave  in  such  despairing  mood, 
And  yet  from  out*the  vanished  past  I  hear 
His  cry  of  anguish  sounding  deep  and  clear, 
And  all  my  heart  with  pity  melts,  as  though 
To-day's  bright  sun  were  looking  on  his  woe. 
"  Of  such  a  wife,  O  righteous  Heaven  !  bereft, 
What  joy  for  me,  what  joy  on  earth  is  left? 
Still  from  my  inmost  soul  the  groans  arise, 
Still  flow  the    sorrows  ceaseless  from  mine  eyes." 
Alas,  poor  tortured  soul !     I  look  away 


90  IN  KITTERY  CHURCHYARD. 

From  the  dark   stone,  —  how  brilliant   shines   the 

day  ! 

A  low  wall,  over  which  the  roses  shed 
Their  perfumed  petals,  shuts  the  quiet  dead 
Apart  a  little,  and  the  tiny  square 
Stands  in  the  broad  and  laughing  field  so  fair, 
And  gay  green  vines  climb  o'er  the  rough  stone- 
wall, 

And  all  about  the  wild  birds  flit  and  call, 
And  but  a  stone's-throw  southward,  the  blue  sea 
Rolls  sparkling  in  and  sings  incessantly. 
Lovely  as  any  dream  the  peaceful  place, 
And  scarcely  changed  since  on  her  gentle  face 
For  the  last  time  on  that  sad  April  day 
He  gazed,  and  felt,  for  him,  all  beauty  lay 
Buried  with  her  forever.     Dull  to  him 
Looked  the  bright  world   through  eyes  with  tears 

so  dim  ! 

"  I  soon  shall  follow  the  same  dreary  way 
That  leads  and  opens  to  the  coasts  of  day." 
His  only  hopeJ     But  when  slow  time  had  dealt 
Firmly  with  him  and  kindly,  and  he  felt 
The  storm  and  stress  of  strong  and  piercing  pain 
Yielding  at  last,  and  he  grew  calm  again, 
Doubtless  he  found  another  mate  before 
He  followed  Mary  to  the  happy  shore  ! 


IN  KITTERY  CHURCHYARD.  '  91 

But  none  the  less  his  grief  appeals  to  me 
Who  sit  and  listen  to  the  singing  sea 
This  matchless  summer  day,  beside  the  stone 
He  made  to  echo  with  his  bitter  moan, 
And  in  my  eyes  I  feel  the  foolish  tears 
For  buried  sorrow,  dead  a  hundred  years  ! 


AT  THE  BREAKERS'  EDGE. 

THROUGH  the  wide  sky  Thy  north-wind's  thunder 
roars 

Resistless,  till  no  cloud  is  left  to  flee,  . 
And  down  the  clear,  cold  heaven  unhindered  pours 

Thine  awful  moonlight  on  the  winter  sea. 

The  vast,  black,  raging  spaces,  torn  and  wild, 
With  an  insensate  fury  answer  back 

To  the  gale's  challenge,  hurrying  breakers,  piled 
Each  over  each,  roll  through  the  glittering  track. 

I  shudder  in  the  terror  of  Thy  cold, 
As  buffeted  by  the  fierce  blast  I  stand, 

Watching  that  shining  path  of  bronzed  gold, 
With  solemn,  shadowy  rocks  on  either  hand  ; 

While  at  their  feet,  ghastly  and  white  as  death, 
The  cruel,  foaming  billows  plunge  and  rave. 

O  Father  !  where  art  Thou  ?     My  feeble  breath 
Cries    to  Thee    through  the  storm  of  wind  and 
wave. 


AT  THE  BREAKERS'  EDGE.  93 

The  cry  of  all  Thy  children  since  the  first 

That  walked  Thy  planets'  myriad  paths  among ; 

The  cry  of  all  mankind  whom  doubt  has  cursed, 
In  every  clime,  in  every  age  and  tongue. 

Thou  art  the  cold,  the  swift  fire  that  consumes  ; 

Thy  vast,  unerring  forces  never  fail ; 
And  Thou  art  in  the  frailest  flower  that  blooms, 

As  in  the  breath  of  this  tremendous  gale. 

Yet,  though  Thy  laws  are  clear  as  light,  and  prove 
Thee  changeless,  ever   human  weakness    craves 

Some  deeper   knowledge  for  our  human  love 
That    looks    with    sad    eyes   o'er   its   wastes    of 
graves, 

And  hungers  for  the  dear  hands  softly  drawn, 
One  after  one,  from  out  our  longing  grasp. 
Dost   Thou   reach   out   for   them  ?     In    the   sweet 

dawn 

Of    some    new   world     thrill    they   within     Thy 
clasp  ? 

Ah  !  what  am  I,  Thine  atom,  standing  here 
In  presence  of  Thy  pitiless  elements, 

Daring  to  question  Thy  great  silence  drear, 
No  voice  may  break  to  lighten  our  suspense! 


94 


AT  THE  BREAKERS'  EDGE. 


Thou  only,  infinite  Patience,  that  endures 
Forever !     Blind  and  dumb  I  cling  to  Thee. 

Slow  glides  the  bitter  night,  and  silent  pours 
Thine  awful  moonlight  on  the  winter  sea. 


"FOR   THOUGHTS." 

A  PANSY  on  his  breast  she  laid, 

Splendid,  and  dark  with  Tyrian  dyes  ; 
"Take  it,  'tis  like  your  tender  eyes, 
Deep  as  the  midnight  heaven,"  she  said. 

The  rich  rose  mantling  in  her  cheek, 
Before  him  like  the  dawn  she  stood, 
Pausing  upon  Life's  height,  subdued, 

Yet  triumphing,  both  proud  and  meek. 

And  white   as   winter  stars,   intense 
With  steadfast  fire,  his  brilliant  face 
Bent  toward  her  with   an   eager  grace, 

Pale   with  a  rapture   half  suspense. 

"  You  give   me  then  a  thought,  O   Sweet !  " 
He  cried,   and  kissed  the  purple  flower, 
And  bowed  by  Love's  resistless  power, 
Trembling  he  sank  before  her  feet. 


96  "FOR  THOUGHTS:' 

She  crowned  his  beautiful   bowed   head 
With  one  caress  of  her  white  hand  ; 
"  Rise  up,  my  flower  of  all   the  land, 
For  all  my  thoughts  are  yours,"  she  said. 


WHEREFORE? 

BLACK  sea,  black  sky !  A  ponderous  steamship 
driving 

Between  them,  laboring  westward  on  her  way, 
And  in  her  path  a  trap  of  Death's  contriving 

Waiting   remorseless   for  its   easy  prey. 

Hundreds  of  souls  within  her  frame  lie  dreaming, 
Hoping  and  fearing,  longing  for  the  light : 

With  human  life  and  thought  and  feeling  teeming, 
She  struggles  onward  through  the  starless 
night. 

Upon  her  furnace   fires  fresh  fuel  flinging, 

The  swarthy  firemen    grumble   at  the  dust 
Mixed   with   the   coal  —  when    suddenly  upspring- 

ing> 

Swift    through    the    smoke-stack    like    a    signal 
thrust, 

Flares   a  red   flame,  a  dread    illumination  ! 

A  cry,  —  a   tumult!     Slowly  to  her  helm 
The   vessel   yields,  'mid  shouts  of  acclamation, 

And  joy  and   terror  all   her  crew  o'erwhelm  ; 

7 


98  WHEREFORE  ? 

For  looming  from  the  blackness  drear  before  them 
Discovered  is  the  iceberg  —  hardly  seen, 

Its  ghastly  precipices  hanging  o'er  them, 

Its   reddened    peaks,  with    dreadful  chasms   be- 
tween, 

Ere  darkness  swallows  it  again  !  and  veering 
Out  of  its  track  the  brave  ship  onward    steers, 

Just  grazing  ruin.     Trembling  still,  and  fearing, 
Her   grateful  people  melt  in  prayers  and  tears. 

Is  it  a  mockery,  their  profound  thanksgiving? 

Another  ship  goes  shuddering  to  her  doom 
Unwarned,  that   very  night,  with  hopes  as  living, 

With  freight  as  precious,  lost  amid  the  gloom, 

With  not  a  ray  to  show  the  apparition 

Waiting  to  slay  her,  none  to  cry  "  Beware !  " 

Rushing  straight  onward  headlong  to  perdition, 
And  for  her  crew  no  time  vouchsafed  for  prayer  ! 

Could  they  have  stormed  Heaven's  gate  with  an- 
guished praying, 

It  would  not  have  availed  a  feather's  weight 
Against  their  doom.     Yet  were  they  disobeying 

No  law  of  God,  to  beckon  such  a  fate. 


WHEREFORE  ?  99 

And  do  not  tell  me  the  Almighty  Master 
Would  work  a  miracle  to  save  the  one, 

And  yield  the  other  up  to  dire  disaster, 
By  merely  human  justice  thus  outdone  ! 

Vainly  we  weep  and  wrestle  with  our  sorrow  — 
We  cannot  see  His  roads,  they  lie  so  broad  : 

But  His  eternal  day  knows  no  to-morrow, 

And  life  and  death  are  all  the  same  with  God. 


GUENDOLEN. 

SHE  is  so  fair,  I  thought,  so  dear  and  fair  ! 
Maidenly  beautiful  from  head  to  feet, 
With  pensive  profile  delicate  and  sweet, 

And  Titian's  color  in  her  sunny  hair. 

So  fair,  I  thought,  rejoicing  even  to  note 
The  little  flexible,  transparent  wrist, 
The  purple  of  the  gold  clasped  amethyst 

That  glittered  at  her  white  and  slender  throat  : 

The  tiny  ear,  curled  like  a  rosy  shell  ; 

The  gentle  splendor  of  the  wide  brown  eyes, 
Deep,  lustrous,  tender,  clear  as  morning  skies  : 

The  full,  sad  lips,  —  the  voice  that  like  a  bell 

Rang  thrilling  with  a  music   sweet  and  wild, 
High,  airy-pure  as  fluting  of  the  fays, 
Or  bird-notes  in  the  early  summer  days, 

And  joyous  as  the  laughter  of  a  child. 


G  UENDOLEN.  I O I 

Dearest,  has  Heaven  aught  to  give  thee  more  ? 
I    thought,    the    while    I  watched    her    changing 

face,  — 
Heard  her  fine   tones,  and  marked  her  gestures' 

grace,  — 
Yea,  one  more  gift  is  left,  all  gifts  before. 

We  go  our  separate  ways  on  earth,  and  pain, 
God's  shaping  chisel,  waits  us  as  the  rest, 
With  nobler  charm  thy  beauty  to  invest, 

And  make  thee  lovelier  ere  we  meet  again. 


THE  WATCH  OF  BOON  ISLAND. 

THEY  crossed  the  lonely  and  lamenting  sea  ; 
Its  moaning  seemed   but   singing.     "  Wilt    thou 

dare," 

He  asked  her,  "  brave  the    loneliness  with  me  ? " 
"  What    loneliness,"     she    said,    "  if    thou    art 
there  ? " 

Afar  and  cold  on  the  horizon's  rim 

Loomed  the  tall  light-house,  like  a  ghostly  sign  ; 
They  sighed  not  as  the  shore  behind  grew  dim. 

A  rose  of  joy  they  bore  across  the  brine. 

They  gained  the  barren  rock,  and  made  their  home 
Among  the  wild  waves  and  the  sea-birds   wild  ; 

The  wintry  winds  blew  fierce  across  the  foam, 
But  in  each  other's  eyes  they  looked  and  smiled. 

Aloft  the  light-house  sent  its  warnings  wide, 
Fed  by  their  faithful  hands,  and   ships  in  sight 

With  joy  beheld  it,  and  on  land  men  cried, 
"  Look,    clear    and   steady    burns    Boon    Island 
light  I " 


THE    WATCH  OF  BOON  ISLAND.  103 

And,  while  they  trimmed  the  lamp  with  busy  hands, 
"  Shine  far  and  through  the  dark,  sweet  light," 
they  cried  ; 

"  Bring  safely  back  the  sailors  from  all  lands 
To  waiting  love,  —  wife,  mother,  sister,  bride  !  " 

No  tempest  shook  their  calm,  though  many  a  storm 
Tore  the  vexed  ocean  into  furious  spray-; 

No  chill  could  find  them  in  their  Eden  warm, 
And  gently  Time  lapsed  onward  day  by  day. 

Said  I  no  chill  could  find  them  ?     There  is  one 
Whose  awful  footfalls  everywhere  are  known, 

With  echoing  sobs,  who  chills  the  summer  sun, 
And  turns  the  happy  heart  of  youth  to  stone  ; 

Inexorable  Death,  a  silent  guest 

At  every  hearth,  before  whose  footsteps  flee 
All  joys,  who  rules  the  earth,  andy  without  rest, 

Roams  the  vast  shuddering  spaces  of  the  sea  ; 

Death  found   them  ;   turned    his-  face   and    passed 
her  by, 

But  laid  a  finger  on  her  lover's  lips, 
And  there  was  silence.     Then  the  storm  ran  high, 

And  tossed  and  troubled  sore  the  distant  ships. 


'04  THE    WATCH  OF  BOON  ISLAND. 

N"ay,  who  shall  speak  the  terrors  of  the  night, 
The  speechless  sorrow,  the  supreme  despair  ? 

Still  like  a  ghost  she  trimmed  the  waning  light, 
Dtagging  her  slow  weight  up  the  winding  stair. 

With  more  than  oil  the  saving  lamp  she  fed, 
While  lashed  to  madness  the  wild  sea  she  heard  ; 

She  kept  her  awful  vigil  with  the  dead, 
And  God's  sweet  pity  still    she  ministered. 

O  sailors,  hailing  loud  the  cheerful  beam, 
Piercing  so  far  the  tumult  of  the  dark, 

A  radiant  star  of  hope,  you  could  not  dream 
What  misery  there  sat  cherishing  that  spark  ! 

Three  times  the  night,  too  terrible  to  bear, 
Descended,  shrouded  in  the  storm.     At  last 

The  sun  rose  clear  and  still  on  her  despair, 
And  all  her  striving  to  the  winds  she  cast, 

And  bowed  her  head  and  let  the  light  die  out, 
For  the  wide  sea  lay  calm  as  her  dead  love. 

When  evening  fell,  from  the  far  land,  in  doubt, 
Vainly  to  find  that  faithful  star  men  strove. 


THE    WATCH  OF  BOON  ISLAND.  105 

Sailors  and  landsmen  look,  and  women's  eyes, 
For  pity  ready,  search  in  vain  the  night, 

And  wondering  neighbor  unto  neighbor  cries, 
"  Now    what,    think   you,    can   ail    Boon  Island 
light  ? " 

Out  from    the    coast   toward   her  high   tower  they 
sailed  ; 

They  found  her  watching,  silent,  by  her  dead, 
A  shadowy  woman,  who  nor  wept,  nor  wailed, 

But  answered  what  they  spake,  till  all  was  said. 

They  bore  the  dead  and  living  both  away. 

With  anguish  time  seemed  powerless  to  destroy 
She  turned,  and  backward  gazed  across  the  bay,  — 

Lost  in  the  sad  sea  lay  her  rose  of  joy. 


BEETHOVEN. 


O  SOVEREIGN  Master !  stern  and  splendid  power, 

That  calmly  dost  both  Time  and  Death  defy  ; 
Lofty  and  lone  as  mountain  peaks  that  tower, 

Leading  our  thoughts  up  to  the  eternal  sky  : 
Keeper  of  some  divine,  mysterious  key, 

Raising  us  far  above  all  human  care, 
Unlocking  awful  gates  of  harmony 

To  let  heaven's  light  in  on  the  world's  despair  ; 
Smiter  of  solemn  chords  that  still  command 

Echoes  in  souls  that  suffer  and  aspire, 
In  the  great  moment  while  we  hold  thy  hand, 

Baptized  with  pain  and  rapture,  tears  and    fire, 
God  lifts  our  saddened  foreheads  from  the  dust, 
The  everlasting  God,  in  whom  we  trust ! 


O  stateliest !  who  shall  speak  thy  praise,  who  find 
A  fitting  word  to  utter  before  thee? 

Thou  lonely  splendor,  thou  consummate  mind, 
Who  marshalest  thy  hosts  in  majesty ; 


BEE  THO  VEN.  107 

Thy  shadowy  armies  of  resistless  thought, 

Thy  subtile  forces  drawn  from  Nature's  heart, 
Thy  solemn  breathing,  mighty  music,  wrought 

Of  life  and  death  —  a  miracle  thou  art ! 
The  restless  tides  of  human  life  that  swing 

In  stormy  currents,  thou  dost  touch  and  sway  ; 
Deep  tones  within  us  answer,  shuddering, 

At  thy  resounding  voice  —  we  cast  away 
All  our  unworthiness,  made  strong  by  thee, 
Thou  great  uplifter  of  humanity ! 


And  was  it  thus  the  master  looked,  think  you  ? 

Is  this  the  painter's  fancy  ?     Who  can  tell ! 
These  strong  and  noble  outlines  should  be  true  : 

On  the  broad  brow  such  majesty  should  dwell. 
Yea,  and  these  deep,  indomitable  eyes 

Are  surely  his.     Lo,  the  imperial  will 
In  every  feature  !     Mighty  purpose  lies 

About  the  shut  mouth,  resolute  and  still. 
Observe  the  head's  pathetic  attitude, 

Bent  forward,  listening,  —  he  that  might  not  hear ! . 
Ah,  could  the  world's  adoring  gratitude, 

So  late  to  come,  have  made  his  life  less  drear! 
Hearest  thou,  now,  great  soul  beyond  our  ken, 
Men's  reverent  voices  answering  thee,  "  Amen  ? " 


MOZART. 

MOST  beautiful  among  the  helpers  thou  ! 

All  heaven's  fresh  air  and  sunshine  at  thy  voice 
Flood  with  refreshment  many  a  weary  brow, 

And  sad  souls  thrill  with  courage   and  rejoice 
To  hear  God's  gospel  of  pure  gladness  sound 

So  sure  and  clear  in  this  bewildered  world, 
Till  the  sick  vapors  that  our  sense  confound, 

By  cheerful  winds  are  into  nothing  whirled. 
O  matchless  melody  !     O  perfect  art ! 

O  lovely,  lofty  voice,  unfaltering! 
O  strong  and  radiant  and  divine  Mozart, 

Among  earth's  benefactors  crowned  a  king! 
Loved  shalt  thou  be  while  time  may  yet  endure, 
Spirit  of  health,  sweet,  sound,  and  wise,  and  pure  ! 


SCHUBERT. 

AT  the  open  window  I  lean  , 

Flowers  in  the  garden  without 
Faint  in  the  heat  and  the  drought  ; 

What  does  the  music  mean  ? 

For  here,  from  the  cold  keys  within, 
Is  a  tempest  of  melody  drawn  ; 
Doubts,  passionate  questions,  the  dawn 

Of  high  hope,  and  a  triumph  to  win ; 

While  out  in  the  garden,  blood-red 

The  poppy  droops,  faint  in  the  heat 
Of  the  noon,  and  the  sea-wind  so  sweet 

Caresses  its  delicate  head. 

And  still  the  strong  music  goes  on 

With  its  storming  of  beautiful  heights, 
With  its  sorrow  that  heaven  requites, 

And  the  victory  fought  for  is  won  ! 


SCHUBERT. 

High  with  thy  gift  didst  thou  reach, 
Schubert,  whose  genius  superb 
Nothing  could  check  or  could  curb : 

Thou  liftest  the  heart  with  thy  speech  ! 


CHOPIN. 

CALM  is  the  close  of  the  day, 
All  things  are  quiet  and  blest; 
Low  in  the  darkening  west 

The  young  moon  sinks  slowly  away. 

Without,  in  the  twilight,  I  dream  : 
Within  it  is  cheerful  and  bright 
With  faces  that  bloom  in  the  light, 

And  the  cold  keys  that  silently  gleam. 

Then  a  magical  touch  draws  near, 
And  a  voice  like  a  call  of  delight 
Cleaves  the  calm  of  the  beautiful  night. 

And  I  turn  from  my  musing  to  hear. 

Lo !  the  movement  too  wondrous  to  name  ! 
Agitation  and  rapture,  the  press 
As  of  myriad  waves  that  caress, 

And  break  into  vanishing  flame. 


5  CHOPIN, 

Ah !  but  the  exquisite  strain, 

Sinking  to  pathos  so  sweet ! 

Is  life  then  a  lie  and  a  cheat  ? 
Hark  to  the  hopeless  refrain  ! 

Comes  a  shock  like  the  voice  of  a  soul 
Lost  to  good,  to  all  beauty  and  joy, 
Led  alone  by  the  powers  that  destroy, 

And  fighting  with  fiends  for  control. 

Drops  a  chord  like  the  grave's  first  clod. 
Then  again  toss  the  waves  of  caprice, 
Wild,  delicate,  sweet,  with  no  peace, 

No  health,  and  no  yielding  to  God. 

O  Siren,  that  charmest  the  air 

With  this  potent  and  passionate  spell, 
Sad  as  songs  of  the  angels  that  fell, 

Thou  leadest  alone  to  despair  ! 

What  troubles  the  night  ?     It  grows  chill  - 
Let  the  weird,  wild  music  be  ; 
Fronts  us  the  infinite  sea 

And  Nature  is  holy  and  still. 


THE  PIMPERNEL. 

SHE  walks  beside  the  silent  shore, 
The  tide  is  high,  the  breeze  is  still  ; 

Nor  ripple  breaks  the  ocean  floor, 
The  sunshine  sleeps  upon  the  hill. 

The  turf  is  warm  beneath  her  feet, 

Bordering  the  beach  of  stone  and  shell, 

And  thick  about  her  path  the  sweet 
Red  blossoms  of  the  pimpernel. 

"  O,  sleep  not  yet,  my  flower  ! "  she  cries, 
"  Nor  prophesy  of  storm  to  come  ; 

Tell  me  that  under  steadfast  skies 

Fair  winds  shall  bring  my  lover  home." 

She  stoops  to  gather  flower  and  shell, 
She  sits,  and  smiling,  studies  each  ; 

She  hears  the  full  tide  rise  and  swell, 
And  whisper  softly  on  the  beach. 


114  THE  PIMPERNEL. 

Waking,  she  dreams  a  golden  dream, 
Remembering  with  what  still  delight, 

To  watch  the  sunset's  fading  gleam, 

Here  by  the  waves  they  stood  last  night. 

She  leans  on  that  encircling  arm, 
Divinely  strong  with  power  to  draw 

Her  nature,  as  the  moon  doth  charm 
The  swaying  sea  with  heavenly  law. 

All  lost  in  bliss  the  moments  glide, 
She  feels  his  whisper,  his  caress  ; 

The  murmur  of  the  mustering  tide 
Brings  her  no  presage  of  distress. 

What  breaks  her  dream  ?     She  lifts  her  eyes, 

Reluctant  to  destroy  the  spell  ; 
The  color  from  her  bright  cheek  dies,  — 

Close  folded  is  the  pimpernel. 

With  rapid  glance  she  scans  the  sky  ; 

Rises  a  sudden  wind,  and  grows, 
And  charged  with  storm  the  cloud  heaps  lie  ; 

Well  may  the  scarlet  blossoms  close  ! 


THE  PIMPERNEL.  115 

A  touch,  and  bliss  is  turned  to  bale  ! 

Life  only  keeps  the  sense  of  pain  ; 
The  world  holds  naught  save  one  white  sail 

Flying  before  the  wind  and  rain. 

Broken  upon  the  wheel  of  fear 

She  wears  the  storm  vexed  hour  away  ; 

And  now  in  gold  and  fire  draws  near 
The  sunset  of  her  troubled  day. 

But  to  her  sky  is  yet  denied 

The  sun  that  lights  the  world  for  her  ; 
She  sweeps  the  rose-flushed  ocean  wide 

With  eager  eyes  the  quick  tears  blur ; 

And  lonely,  lonely  all  the  space 
Stretches,  with  never  sign  of  sail, 

And  sadder  grows  her  wistful  face, 
And  all  the  sunset  splendors  fail. 

And  cold  and  pale,  in  still  despair, 

With  heavier  grief  than  tongue  can  tell, 

She  sinks,  —  upon  her  lips  a  prayer, 
Her  cheek  against  the  pimpernel. 


Ii6  THE  PIMPERNEL. 

Bright  blossoms  wet  with  showery  tears 
On  her  shut  eyes  their  droplets    shed. 

Only  the  wakened  waves  she  hears 
That  singing  drown  his  rapid  tread. 

"Sweet,  I  am  here!"     Joy's  gates  swing 
And  heaven  is  theirs,  and  all  is  well, 

And  left  beside  the  ebbing  tide 
Forgotten  is  the  pimpernel. 


BY  THE  DEAD. 

O  POVERTY  !  till  now  I  never  knew 

The  meaning  of  the  word  !     What  lack  is  here  ! 
O  pale  mask  of  a  soul,  great,  good  and  true  ! 

O  mocking  semblance  stretched  upon  a  bier  ! 

Each  atom  of  this  devastated  face 

Was    so   instinct  with    power,  with  warmth    and 

light  ; 
What  desert  is  so  desolate  !     No  grace 

Is  left,  no  gleam,  no  change,  no  day,  no  night. 

Where    is    the    key   that    locked   these    gates    of 

speech, 

Once  beautiful,  where  thought  stood  sentinel, 
Where    sweetness    sat,    where   wisdom    passed,    to 

teach 
Our  weakness  strength,  our  homage  to  compel  ? 


n8  BY  THE  DEAD. 

Despoiled  at  last,  and  waste  and  barren  lies 
This  once   so   rich  domain.      Where    lives    and 
moves, 

In  what  new  world,  the  splendor  oflhese  eyes 
That  dauntless  lightened  like  imperial  Jove's  ? 

Annihilated,  do  you  answer  me  ? 

Blown  out  and  vanished  like  a  candle  flame  ? 
Is  nothing  left  but  this  pale  effigy, 

This  silence  drear,  this  dread  without  a  name  ? 

Has  it  been  all  in  vain,  our  love   and  pride. 
This  yearning  love  that  still  pursues  our  friend 

Into  the  awful  dark,  unsatisfied, 

Bereft,  and  wrung  with  pain  ?     Is  this  the  end  ? 

Would  God  so  mock  us  ?     To  our  human  sense 
No  answer  reaches  through  the  doubtful  air  ; 

Yet  with  a  living  hope,  profound,  intense, 
Our  tortured  souls  rebel  against  despair  ; 

As  bowing  to  the  bitter  fate  we  go 

Drooping  and  dumb  as  if  beneath  a  curse  ; 

But  does  not  pitying  Heaven  answer  "  No !  " 
With  all  the  voices  of  the  universe  ? 


FOOTPRINTS  IN  THE  SAND. 

LAZILY,  through  the  warm  gray  afternoon, 

We  sailed  toward  the  land  ; 
Over  the  long  sweep  of  the  billows,  soon, 

We  saw  on  either  hand 
Peninsula  and  cape  and  silver  beach 

Unfold  before  our  eyes, 
Light-house  and  roof  and  spire  and  wooded  reach 

Grew  clear  beyond  surmise. 
Behind  us  lay  the  islands  that  we  loved, 

Touched  by  a  wandering  gleam, 
Melting  in  distance,  where  the  white  sails  moved 

Softly  as  in  a  dream. 
Drifting  past  buoy  and  scarlet  beacon  slow, 

We  gained  the  coast  at  last, 
And  up  the  harbor,  where  no  wind  did  blow, 

We  drew,  and  anchor  cast. 

The  lovely  land  !     Green,  the   broad  fields   came 
down 

Almost  into  the  sea  ; 
Nestled  the  quiet  homesteads  warm  and  brown, 

Embraced  by  many  a  tree  > 


120  FOOTPRINTS  IN  THE  SAND. 

The  gray  above  was  streaked  with  smiling  blue, 

The  snowy  gulls  sailed  o'er  ; 
The  shining  golden-rod  waved,  where  it  grew, 

A  welcome  to  the  shore. 
Peaceful  the  whole,  and  sweet.     Beyond  the  sand. 

The  dwelling-place  I  sought 
Lay  in  the  sunshine.     All  the  scene  I  scanned 

Full  of  one  wistful  thought : 
Saw  any  eyes  our  vessel  near  the    shore 

From  vine-draped  windows  quaint  ? 
Waited  my  bright,  shy  darling  at  the  door, 

Fairer  than  words  could  paint  ? 
I  did  not  see  her  gleaming  golden  head, 

Nor  hear  her  clear  voice  call ; 
As  up  the  beach  I  went  with  rapid  tread, 

Lonely  and  still  was  all^ 
But  on  the  smooth  sand  printed,  far  and  near, 

I  saw  her  footsteps   small ; 
Here  had  she  loitered,  here  she  hastened,  here 

She  climbed  the  low  stone  wall. 
Such  pathos  in  those  little  footprints  spoke, 

I  paused  and  lingered  long  ; 
Listening  as  far  away  the  billows  broke 

With  the  old  solemn  song. 
"The  infinite  hoary  spray  of  the  salt  sea," 

In  yet  another  tide, 


FOOTPRINTS  IN  THE  SAND.  121 

Should  wash  away  these  traces  utterly  ; 

And  in  my  heart  I  cried  ; 
"  O  thou  Creator,  when  thy  waves  of  Time, 

The  infinite  hoary  spray 
That  sweeps  life  from  the  earth  at  dawn  and  prime 

Have  swept  her  soul  away, 
How  shall  I  know  it  is  not  even   as  these 

Light  footprints  in  the  sand, 
That  vanish  into  naught  ?     For  no  .man  sees 

Clearly  what  thou  hast  planned." 
And  sadly  musing,  up  the  slope  I  pressed, 

And  sought  her  where  .she  played, 
By  breeze  and  sunshine  flattered  and  caressed, 

A  merry  little  maid. 
And  while  I  clasped  her  close  and  held  her  fast, 

And  looked  into  her  face, 
Half  shy,  half  smiling,  wholly  glad  at  last 

To  rest  in  my  embrace, 
From  the  clear,  heaven  of  her  innocent  eyes 

Leaped  Love  to  answer  me, 
Divinely  through  the  mortal  shape  that  dies 

Shone  immortality! 
What  the  winds  hinted,  what  the  awful  sky 

Held  in  its  keeping,  —  all 
The  vast  sea's  prophesying  suddenly 

Grew  clear  as  clarion  call. 


122  FOOTPRINTS  IN  THE  SAND. 

The  secret  nature  strives  to  speak,  yet  hides, 

Flashed  from  those  human  eyes 
To  slay  my  doubt:    I  felt  that  all  the  tides 

Of  death  and  change  might  rise 
And  devastate  the  world,  yet  I  could  see 

This  steady  shining  spark 
Should  live  eternally,  could  never  be 

Lost  in  the  unfathomed  dark  ! 
And  when  beneath  a  threatening  sunset  sky 

We  trimmed  our  sails  and  turned 
Seaward  again,  with  many  a  sweet  good-by, 

A  quiet  gladness  burned 
Within  me,  as  I  watched  her  tiny  form 

Go  dancing  up  and  down, 
Light  as  a  sandpiper  before  the  storm, 

Upon  the  beach-edge  brown, 
Waving  her  little  kerchief  to  and  fro 

Till  we  were  out  of  sight, 
Sped  by  a  wild  wind  that  began  to  blow 

Out  of  the  troubled  night  : 
And  while  we  tossed  upon  an  angry  sea, 

And  round  the  lightning  ran, 
And   muttering  thunder  rolled  incessantly 

As  the  black  storm  began, 
I  knew  the  fair  and  peaceful  landscape  lay 

Safe  hidden  in  the  gloom, 


FOOTPRINTS  IN  THE  SAND.  12; 

Waiting  the  glad  returning  of  the  day 

To  smile  again  and  bloom : 
And  sure  as  that  to-morrow's  sun  would  rise, 

And  day  again  would  be, 
Shone  the  sweet  promise  of  those  childish  eyes 

Wherein  God  answered  me. 


A   BROKEN    LILY. 

O  LILY,  dropped  upon  the  gray  sea-sand, 

What  time  my  fair  love  through  the  morning  land 

Led  the  rejoicing  children,  singing  all 

In  happy  chorus,  to  their  festival, 

Under  green  trees  the  flowery  fields  among ; 

Now,  when  the  noon-sun  blazes  o'er  the  sea, 
And  echo  tells  not  of  the  song  they  sung, 

And  all  thy  silver  splendor  silently 
Thou  yieldest  to  the  salt  and  bitter  tide, 

I  find  thee,  and,  remembering  on  whose  breast 
Thy  day  began  in  thy  fresh  beauty's  pride, 

Though  of  thy  bloom  and  fragrance  dispossessed, 
Thou  art  to  me  than  all  June's  flowers  more  sweet, 
Fairer  than  Aphrodite's  foam-kissed  feet ! 


MAY   MORNING. 

WARM,  wild,  rainy  wind,  blowing  fitfully, 
Stirring  dreamy  breakers  on  the  slumberous  May 

sea, 
What  shall  fail  to  answer  thee  ?    What  thing  shall 

withstand 
The  spell  of  thine  enchantment,  flowing   over  sea 

and  land  ? 

All  along  the  swamp-edge  in  the  rain  I  go ; 

All  about  my  head  thou  the  loosened   locks  doth 

blow ; 

Like  the  German  goose-girl  in  the  fairy  tale, 
I  watch  across  the  shining  pool  my  flock  of  ducks 

that  sail. 

Redly  gleam  the  rose-haws,  dripping  with  the  wet. 
Fruit  of  sober  autumn,  glowing  crimson  yet; 
Slender  swords  of  iris  leaves  cut  the  water  clear, 
And    light    green    creeps    the  tender   grass,  thick 
spreading  far  and  near. 


126  MAY  MORNING. 

Every    last    year's    stalk    is    set    with    brown    or 

golden  studs  ; 
All  the  boughs  of  bayberry  are  thick  with  scented 

buds; 

Islanded  in  turfy  velvet,  where  the  ferns  uncurl, 
Lo!    the  large  white  duck's  egg    glimmers    like  a 

pearl ! 

Softly  sing  the  billows,  rushing,  whispering  low ; 
Freshly,    oh !     deliciously,  the   warm,    wild    wind 

doth   blow! 
Plaintive  bleat  of  new  washed  lambs  comes  faint 

from  far  away ; 
And  clearly  cry  the  little   birds,  alert   and   blithe 

and  gay. 

O  happy,  happy  morning!    O  dear,  familiar  place! 
O  warm,  sweet    tears    of  Heaven,  fast   falling    on 

my  face  ! 
O    well-remembered,     rainy    wind,    blow    all    my. 

care  away, 
That  I  may  be  a  child    again    this    blissful    morn 

of  May. 


ALL'S   WELL. 

WHAT  dost  thou    here,  young   wife,  by  the  water- 
side, 

Gathering  crimson  dulse? 
Know'st    thou    not   that    the    cloud    in    the   west 

glooms  wide, 
And  the  wind  has  a  hurrying  pulse  ? 

Peaceful  the  eastern  waters  before  thee  spread, 

And  the  cliffs  rise  high  behind, 
While  thou  gatherest  sea-weeds,  green  and  brown 
and  red, 

To  the  coming  trouble  blind. 

She  lifts  her  eyes  to  the  top  of  the  granite  crags, 
And  the  color  ebbs  from  her  cheek, 

Swift   vapors   skurry,    the   black    squall's   tattered 

flags, 
And  she  hears  the  gray  gull  shriek. 

And  like  a  blow  is  the  thought  of  the  little  boat 
By  this  on  its  homeward  way, 


128  ALL'S   WELL. 

A  tiny  skiff,  like  a  cockle-shell  afloat 
In  the  tempest-threatened  bay  ; 

With   husband   and   brother  who   sailed    away   to 

the  town 

When  fair  shone  the  morning  sun, 
To  tarry  but   till    the   tide    in    the   stream    turned 

down, 
Then  seaward  again  to  run. 

Homeward  she  flies ;   the  land-breeze  strikes   her 
cold; 

A  terror  is  in  the  sky ; 
Her  little  babe  with  his  tumbled  hair  of  gold 

In  her  mother's  arms  doth  lie. 

She  catches  him  up  with  a  breathless,  questioning 

cry, 

"O  mother,  speak!     Are  they  near?" 
"  Dear,    almost    home.      At    the   western    window 

high 
Thy  father  watches  in  fear." 

She   climbs   the   stair :    "  O   father,    must  they  be 

lost  ? " 
He  answers  never  a  word ; 


ALL^S   WELL.  129 

Through  the  glass  he  watches  the  line  the  squall 

has  crossed 
As  if  no  sound  he  heard. 

And  the  Day  of  Doom  seems  come  in  the  angry 
sky, 

And  a  low  roar  fills  the  air ; 
In  an  awful  stillness  the  dead-black  waters  lie, 

And  the  rocks  gleam  ghastly  and  bare. 

Is  it  a  snow-white  gull's  wing  fluttering  there, 
In  the  midst  of  that  hush  of  dread  ? 

Ah,  no,  'tis  the  narrow  strip  of  canvas  they  dare 
In  the  face  of  the  storm  to  spread. 

A  moment  more  and  all  the  furies  are  loose, 

The  coast  line  is  blotted  out, 
The  skiff  is  gone,  the  rain-cloud  pours  its  sluice, 

And  she  hears  her  father  shout, 

"  Down  with  your   sail !  "   as   if  through   the   tu- 
mult wild 

And  the  distance,  his  voice  might  reach ; 
And,    stunned,    she   clasps   still    closer    her    rosy 

child, 

Bereft  of  the  power  of  speech. 
9 


130  ALL  'S   WELL. 

But  her  heart  cries  low,  as  writhing  it  lies  on  the 

rack, 

"  Sweet,  art  thou  fatherless  ? " 
And  swift  to  her  mother  she  carries  the  little  one 

back, 
Where  she  waits  in  her  sore  distress. 

Then  into  the  heart  of  the  storm  she  rushes  forth  ; 

Like  leaden  bullets  the  rain 

Beats  hard  in    her   face,  and   the   hurricane    from 
the   north 

Would  drive  her  back  again. 

It  splits  the  shingles  off  the  roof  like  a  wedge, 

It  lashes  her  clothes  and  her  hair, 
But  slowly  she  fights  her  way  to  the  western  ledge, 

With  the  strength  of  her  despair. 

Through  the  flying  spray,  through  the  rain-cloud's 

shattered  stream, 

What  shapes  in  the  distance  grope, 
Like  figures  that  haunt    the    shore    of  a   dreadful 

dream  ? 
She  is  wild  with  a  desperate  hope. 

Have  pity,  merciful   Heaven  !     Can  it  be  ? 
Is  it  no  vision  that  mocks  ? 


ALL'S  WELL.  131 

From  billow  to  billow  the  headlong  plunging  sea 
Has  tossed  them  high  on  the  rocks ; 

And  the  hollow  skiff  like  a  child's  toy  lies  on  the 

ledge 

This  side  of  the  roaring  foam, 
And  up  from  the  valley  of  death,  from  the  grave's 

drear  edge, 
Like  ghosts  of  men  they  come ! 

O  sweetly,  sweetly  shines  the  sinking  sun 

And  the  storm  is  swept  away, 
Piled  high  in  the  east  are  the  cloud-heaps   purple 
and  dun, 

And  peacefully  dies  the  day. 

But  a  sweeter  peace  falls  soft  on  the  grateful  souls 

In  the  lonely  isle  that  dwell, 
And  the  whisper  and  rush  of  every  wave  that  rolls 

Seem  murmuring,  '*  All  is  well." 


THE   SECRET. 

"  O  WHAT  saw  you,  gathering  flowers  so  early  this 

May  morn  ? " 
"  I  saw  a  shining   blackbird    loud  whistling   on    a 

thorn  ; 
I  saw  the  mottled  plover  from  the  swamp-edge  fly 

away; 
I    heard   the   blithe   song-sparrows  who  welcomed 

the  bright  day  ; 
I  heard  the  curlew  calling,  O  sweet,  so  sweet  and 

far! 
I  saw  the  white  gull  twinkling  in  the  blue  sky  like 

a  star/' 

"  And  is  the  blackbird  whistling  yet,  and  does  the 
curlew  call, 

And  should  I  find  your  rapture  if  I  saw  and  heard 
it  all? 

Life  seems  to  me  so  hard  to  bear,  perplexed  with 
change  and  loss, 

Heavy  with  pain,  and  weary  still  with  care's  per- 
petual cross, 


THE  SECRET.  133 

Why  should  the  white  gull's  twinkling  wings,  half 

lost  amid  the  blue, 
Bring  any  joy?     Yet  care  and  pain  weigh  just  as 

much  on  you, 
And  you  come  back    and    look   at   me  with    such 

joy-beaming  eyes 
An    angel    might   have   been   your   guide   through 

fields  of  Paradise  ! 
What  is    the   secret    Nature    keeps   to  whisper   in 

your  ear 
That   sends    the    swift    blood    pulsing  warm    with 

such  immortal  cheer, 
And  makes  your   eyes    shine    like   the   morn,  and 

rings  sweet  in  your  voice, 
Like  some  clear,  distant  trumpet  sound  that  bids 

the  world  rejoice  ? " 
"  Her  secret  ?     Nay,  she    speaks   to    me   no  word 

you  might  not   hear. 
Her  voice    is    ever   ready  and   her   meaning   ever 

clear : 
But  I  love  her  with  such  passion  that  her  lightest 

gesture  seems 
Divinely  beautiful  —  she  fills   my  life  with   golden 

dreams. 
I  tremble  in  her  presence,  to  her  every  touch  and 

tone  ; 


134  THE  SECRET. 

I    answer   to   her   whisper  —  love   has   to  worship 

grown. 
She  turns  her  solemn  face  to  me,  and  lays  within 

my  hand 
The  key  that  puts  her  endless  wealth  for   aye    at 

my  command  ; 
And  so,  because  I  worship   her,  her   benedictions 

rest 
Upon  me,  apd  she  folds  me  safe  and  warm  upon 

her  breast, 
And  in  her   sweet    and    asvful    eyes   I    gaze  till    I 

forget 
The   troubles    that   perplex   our   days,  the   tumult 

and  the  fret. 
O,  would  you  learn  the  word  of  power  that  lifts, 

all  care  above, 
The  sad  soul  up  to  Nature's  heart?     I  answer,  It 

is  Love  ! " 


SEASIDE  GOLDEN-ROD. 

GRACEFUL,  tossing  plume  of  glowing  gold. 
Waving  lonely  on  the  rocky  ledge  ; 

Leaning  seaward,  lovely  to  behold, 

Clinging  to  the  high  cliff's  ragged  edge; 

Burning  in  the  pure  September  sky, 

Spike  of  gold   against  the  stainless  blue, 

Do  you  watch  the  vessels  drifting  by  ? 
Does  the  quiet  day  seem  long  to  you  ? 

Up  to  you  I  climb,  O   perfect  shape  ! 

Poised  so  lightly  'twixt  the  sky  and  sea; 
Looking  out  o'er  headland,  crag,  and  cape, 

O'er  the  ocean's  vague  immensity. 

Up  to  you  my  human  thought  I  bring, 

Sit  me  down  your  peaceful  watch  to  share. 

Do  you  hear  the  waves  below  us  sing  ? 
Feel  you  the  soft  fanning  of  the  air  ? 


136  SEASIDE  GOLDEN-ROD. 

How  much  of  life's  rapture  is  your  right  ? 

In  earth's  joy  what  may  your  portion  be  ? 
Rocked  by  breezes,  touched  by  tender  light, 

Fed   by  dews  and  sung  to  by  the  sea! 

Something  of  delight  and  of  content 

Must  be  yours,   however  vaguely  known; 

And  your  grace  is  mutely  eloquent, 

And  your  beauty  makes  the  rock  a  throne. 

Matters  not  to  you,  O  golden  flower ! 

That  such  eyes  of  worship  watch  you  sway  \ 
But  you  make  more  sweet  the  dreamful  hour. 

And  you  crown  for  me  the  tranquil  day. 


MARCH. 

THE  keen  north  wind  pipes  loud ; 
Swift  scuds  the  flying  cloud  ; 
Light  lies  the  new  fallen  snow; 
The  ice-clad  eaves  drip  slow, 
For  glad  Spring  has  begun, 
And  to  the  ardent  sun 
The  earth,  long  time  so  bleak, 
Turns  a  frost-bitten  cheek. 
Through  the  clear  sky  of  March, 
Blue  to  the  topmost  arch, 
Swept  by  the  New  Year's  gales, 
The  crow,  harsh-clamoring,  sails. 
By  the  swift  river's  flood 
The  willow's  golden  blood 
Mounts  to  the  highest  spray, 
More  vivid  day  by  day  ; 
And  fast  the  maples  now 
Crimson  through  every  bough, 
And  from  the  alder's  crown 
Swing  the  long  catkins  brown. 


138  MARCH. 

Gone  is  the  Winter's  pain 
Though  sorrow  still  remain, 
Though  eyes  with  tears  be  wet, 
The  voice  of  our  regret 
We  hush,  to  hear  the  sweet 
Far  fall  of  summer's  feet. 
The  Heavenly  Father  wise 
Looks  in  the  saddened  eyes 
Of  our  unworthiness, 
Yet  doth  He  cheer  and  bless. 
Doubt  and  Despair  are  dead  ; 
Hope  dares  to  raise  her  head, 
And  whispers  of  delight 
Fill  the  earth  day  and  night. 
The  snow-drops  by  the  door 
Lift  upward,  sweet  and  pure, 
Their  delicate  bells ;    and  soon, 
In  the  calm  blaze  of  noon, 
By  lowly  window-sills 
Will  laugh  the  daffodils  t 


SONG. 

THE  clover  blossoms  kiss  her  feet, 

She  is  so  sweet, 

While  I,  who  may  not  kiss  her  hand, 
Bless  all  the  wild  flowers  in  the  land. 

Soft  sunshine  falls  across  her  breast, 

She  is  so  blest. 

I'm  jealous  of  its  arms  of  gold, 
O  that  these  arms  her  form  might  fold  I 

Gently  the  breezes  kiss  her  hair, 

She  is  so  fair! 

Let  flowers  and  sun  and  breeze  go  by 
O  dearest!   Love  me  or  I  die. 


THE   WHITE   ROVER. 

THEY  called  the  little  schooner  the  "  White  Rover," 
When    they  lightly  launched   her  on    the   brim- 
ming tide  ; 
Staunch  and   trim  she  was  to  sail  the  broad  seas 

over, 

And  with  cheers  they  spread  her  snowy  canvas 
wide;    , 

And  a  thing  of  beauty,  forth  she   fared  to  wrestle 
With  the  wild,  uncertain   ocean,  far  and  near, 

And  no  evil  thing  befell  the  graceful  vessel, 
And  she  sailed  in   storm  and  sunshine  many  a 
year. 

But  at  last  a  rumor  grew  that  she   was   haunted, 
That  up  her  slender  masts  her  sails  had  flown 

Unhelped  by  human   hands,  as  if  enchanted, 
As  she  rocked  upon  her  moorings  all  alone. 


THE   WHITE  ROVER.  141 

Howe'er  that  be  —  one  day  in  winter  weather, 
When  the  bitter  north  was  raging  at  its  worst, 

And  wind  and  cold  vexed  the  roused  sea  together, 
Till  Dante's  frozen  hell  seemed  less  accurst, 

Two  fishermen,  to  draw  their  trawls  essaying, 
Seized  by  the  hurricane  that  ploughed  the  bay, 

Were  swept  across  the  waste  ;  and  hardly  weighing 
Death's  chance,  the  Rover  reefed  and  bore  away 

To  save  them,  —  reached  them,  shuddering  where 
they  waited 

Their  quick  destruction,  tossing  white  and  dumb, 
And  caught  them  from  perdition  ;  then,  belated, 

Strove  to  return  the  rough  way  she  had  come. 

But  there  was  no  returning  !  Fierce  as  lightning 
The  eager  cold  grew  keener,  more  intense. 

Across  her  homeward  track  the  billows,  whitening, 
In  crested  mountains  rolling,  drove  her  thence  ; 

Till  her  brave  crew,  benumbed,  gave  up  the  battle, 
Clad  in  a  mail  of  ice  that  weighed  like  lead  ; 

They  heard  the  crusted  blocks  and  rigging  rattle, 
They  saw  the  sails  like  sheets  of  iron  spread  ; 


142  THE   WHITE  ROVER. 

And  powerless  before  the  gale  they  drifted, 
Till  swiftly  dropped  the  black  and  hopeless  night. 

The  wild  tornado  never  lulled  nor  shifted, 

But  drove  them  toward  the  coast  upon  their  right, 

And  flung  the  frozen  schooner,  all  sail  standing, 
Stiff  as  an  iceberg  on  the  icy  shore  ; 

And  half  alive,  her  torpid  people,  landing, 

Crept   to    the   light-house,  and    were    safe    once 
more. 

Then  what  befell  the  vessel,  standing  solemn 
Through    that    tremendous    night    of   cold    and 
.    storm, 

Upon  the  frost-locked  land,  a  frigid  column, 
Beneath  the  stars,  a  silent,  glittering  form? 

None  ever  saw  her  more !     The  tide  upbore  her, 
Released  her  fastened  keel,  and  ere  the  day, 

Without  a  guide,  and  all   the  world  before  her, 
The  sad,  forsaken  Rover  sailed  away. 

But  sometimes,  when  in  summer  twilight  blending, 
Sunset  and  moonrise  mingle  their  rich  light, 

Or  when  on  noonday  mists   the  sun  is  spending 
His  glory,  till  they  glimmer  thin  and  white, 


THE    WHITE  ROVER.  143, 

Upon  the  dim  horizon  melting,  gleaming, 
Slender,  ethereal,  like  a  lovely  ghost 

Soft  looming,  in  the  hazy  distance  dreaming, 
Or  gliding  like  a  film  along  the  coast, 

I  seem  to  see  her  yet  :  and  skippers  hoary, 
Sailors  and  fishermen,  will  still  relate 

Among  their  sea-worn  mates  the  simple  story 
Of  how  the  wandering  Rover  met  her  fate  ; 

And    shake    their  heads :    "  Perhaps   the  tempest 
wrecked  her, 

But  snug  and  trim   and  tidy,  fore  and  aft, 
I've  seen  the  vessel  since,  or  else  her  spectre,. 

Sailing  as  never  yet  sailed  earthly  craft, 

Straight  in  the  wind's  teeth  ;  and  with  steady  mo- 
tion 

Cleaving  a  calm  as  if  it  blew  a  gale !  " 
And    they   are  sure    her   wraith   still    haunts    the 

ocean, 
Mocking  the  sight  with  semblance  of  a  sail. 


POEMS    FOR   CHILDREN. 


INHOSPITALITY. 

DOWN  on  the  north  wind  sweeping 
Comes  the  storrn  with  roaring  din  ; 

Sadly,  with  dreary  tumult, 
The  twilight  gathers  in. 

The  snow-covered  little  island 
Is  white  as  a  frosted  cake  ; 

And  round  and  round  it  the  billows 
Bellow,  and  thunder,  and  break. 

Within  doors  the  blazing  drift-wood 
,  Is  glowing,  ruddy  and  warm, 
And  happiness  sits  at  the  fire-side, 
Watching  the  raging  storm. 

What  fluttered  past  the  window, 
All  weary  and  wet  and  weak, 

With  the  heavily  drooping  pinions, 
And  the  wicked,  crooked  beak  ? 


148  INHOSPITALITY. 

Where  the  boats  before  the  house-door 

Are  drawn  up  from  the  tide, 
On  the  tallest  prow  he  settles, 

And  furls  his  wings  so  wide. 

Uprises  the  elder  brother, 

Uprises  the  sister  too  ; 
"  Nay,  brother,  he  comes  for  shelter ! 

Spare  him  !     What  would  you  do  ? " 

He  laughs  and  is  gone  for  his  rifle, 
*  And  steadily  takes  his  aim  : 
But  the  wild  wind  seizes  his  yellow  beard, 
And  blows  it  about  like  flame. 

Into  his  eyes  the  snow  sifts, 

Till  he  cannot  see  aright : 
Ah,  the  cruel  gun  is  baffled ! 

And  the  weary  hawk  takes  flight ; 

And  slowly  up  he  circles, 

Higher  and  higher  still ; 
The  fierce  wind  catches  and  bears  him  away 

O'er  the  bleak  crest  of  the  hill. 


INHOSPITALITY.  149 

Cries  the  little  sister,  watching, 

"  Whither  now  can  he  flee  ? 
Black  through  the  whirling  snow-flakes 

Glooms  the  awful  face  of  the  sea, 

'  And  tossed  and  torn  by  the  tempest, 
He  must  sink  in  the  bitter  brine ! 
Why  couldn't  we  pity  and  save  him 
Till  the  sun  again  should  shine  ? " 

They  drew  her  back  to  the  fireside 

And  laughed  at  her  cloudy  eyes,  — 
1  What,  mourn  for  that  robber- fellow, 
The  cruellest  bird  that  flies  ! 

'  Your  song-sparrow  hardly  would  thank  you, 

And  which  is  the  dearest,  pray  ? " 
But  she  heard  at  the  doors  and  windows 
The  lashing  of  the  spray ; 

And  as  ever  the  shock  of  the  breakers 

The  heart  of  their  quiet  stirred, 
She  thought,  "  O  would  we  had  sheltered  him, 

The  poor,  unhappy  bird  !  " 


THE   GREAT  WHITE  OWL. 

HE  sat  aloft  on  the  rocky  height, 

Snow-white  above  the  snow, 
In  the  winter  morning  calm  and  bright, 

And  I  gazed  at  him,  below. 

He  faced  the  east,  where  the  sunshine  streamed 

On  the  singing,  sparkling  sea, 
And  he  blinked  with  his  yellow  eyes,  that  seemed 

All  sightless  and  blank  to  be. 

The  snow-birds  swept  in  a  whirling  crowd 

About  him  gleefully, 
And  piped  and  whistled  sweet  and  loud, 

But  never  a  plume  stirred  he. 

Singing  they  passed  and  away  they  flew 
Through  the  brilliant  atmosphere  ; 

Cloud-like  he  sat,  with  the  living  blue 
Of  the  sky  behind  him,  clear. 


THE   GREAT  WHITE   OWL.  151 

'  Give  you  good-morrow,  friend,"  I  cried. 

He  wheeled  his  large  round  head, 
Solemn  and  stately,  from  side  to  side, 
But  never  a  word  he  said. 

'  O  lonely  creature,  weird  and  white, 

Why  are  you  sitting  there, 

Like  a  glimmering  ghost  from  the  still  midnight, 
In  the  beautiful  morning  air  ?  " 

He  spurned  the  rock  with  his  talons  strong, 

No  human  speech  brooked  he  ; 
Like  a  snow-flake  huge  he  sped  along 

Swiftly  and  noiselessly. 

His  wide,  slow-waving  wings  so  white, 

Heavy  and  soft  did  seem  ; 
Yet  rapid  as  a  dream  his  flight, 

And  silent  as  a  dream. 

And  when  a  distant  crag  he  gained, 

Bright-twinkling  like  a  star, 
He  shook  his  shining  plumes,  and  deigned 

To  watch  me  from  afar. 


152  THE   GREAT   WHITE   OWL. 

And  once  again,  when  the  evening-red 

Burned  dimly  in  the  west, 
I  saw  him  motionless,  his  head 

Bent  forward  on  his  breast. 

Dark  and  still,  'gainst  the  sunset  sky 

Stood  out  his  figure  lone ; 
Crowning  the  bleak  rock  far  and  high, 

By  sad  winds  overblown. 

Did  he  dream  of  the  ice-fields,  stark  and  drear  ? 

Of  his  haunts  on  the  Arctic  shore  ? 
Or  the  downy  brood  in  his  nest  last  year 

On  the  coast  of  Labrador  ? 

Had  he  fluttered  the  Esquimaux  huts  among  ? 

How  I  wished  he  could  speak  to  me ! 
Had  he  sailed  on  the  icebergs,  rainbow-hung, 

In  the  open  Polar  Sea? 

O  many  a  tale  he  might  have  told 

Of  marvelous   sounds  and  sights, 
Where  the  world  lies  hopeless  and  dumb  with  cold. 

Through  desolate  days  and  nights. 


THE   GREAT  WHITE   OWL.  ic 

But  with  folded  wings,  while  the  darkness  fell. 

He  sat,  nor  spake,  nor  stirred  ; 
And  charmed  as  if  by  a  subtile  spell, 

I  mused  on  the  wondrous  Bird. 


YELLOW-BIRD. 

YELLOW-BIRD,  where  did  you  learn  that  song, 

Perched  on  the  trellis  where  grape-vines  clamber, 

In  and  out  fluttering,  all  day  long, 

With  your  golden  breast  bedropped  with  amber? 

Where  do  you  hide  such  a  store  of  delight, 
O  delicate  creature,  tiny  and  slender, 

Like  a  mellow  morning  sunbeam  bright 
And  overflowing  with  music  tender  ! 

You  never  learned  it  at  all,  the  song 

Springs  from  your  heart  in  rich  completeness, 

Beautiful,  blissful,  clear  and  strong, 

Steeped  in  the  summer's  ripest  sweetness. 

To  think  we  are  neighbors  of  yours  !     How  fine  ! 

O  what  a  pleasure  to  watch  you  together, 
Bringing  your  fern-down  and  floss  to  re-line 

The  nest  worn  thin  by  the  winter  weather ! 


YELLOW-BIRD. 


Send  up  your  full  notes  like  worshipful  prayers ; 

Yellow-bird,  sing  while  the  summer 's  before  you  ; 
Little  you  dream  that,  in  spite  of  their  cares, 

Here  's  a  whole  family,  proud  to  adore  you  ! 


SPRING. 

THE  alder  by  the  river 

Shakes  out  her  powdery  curls  ; 
The  willow  buds  in  silver 

For  little  boys  and  girls. 

The  little  birds  fly  over, 

And  O,  how  sweet  they  sing! 

To  tell  the  happy  children 
That  once  again  'tis  spring, 

The  gay  green  grass  comes  creeping 
So  soft  beneath  their  feet ; 

The  frogs  begin  to  ripple 
A  music  clear  and  sweet. 

And  buttercups  are  coming, 

And  scarlet  columbine, 
And  in  the  sunny  meadows 

The  dandelions  shine. 


SPRING. 

And  just  as  many  daisies 
As  their  soft  hands  can  hold 

The  little  ones  may  gather, 
All  fair  in  white  and  gold. 

Here  blows  the  warm  red  clover, 
There  peeps  the  violet  blue  ; 

O  happy  little  children  ! 
God  made  them  all  for  you. 


157 


THE  BURGOMASTER  GULL. 

THE  old-wives  sit  on  the  heaving  brine, 

White-breasted  in  the  sun, 
Preening  and  smoothing  their  feathers  fine, 

And  scolding,  every  one. 

The  snowy  kittiwakes  overhead, 

With  beautiful  beaks  of  gold, 
And  wings  of  delicate  gray  outspread, 

Float,  listening  while  they  scold. 

And  a  foolish  guillemot,  swimming  by, 
Though  heavy  and  clumsy  and  dull, 

Joins  in  with  a  will  when  he  hears  their  cry 
'Gainst  the  Burgomaster  Gull. 

For  every  sea-bird,  far  and  near, 
With  an  atom  of  brains  in  its  skull, 

Knows  plenty  of  reasons  for  hate  and  fear 
Of  the  Burgomaster  Gull. 


THE  BURGOMASTER  GULL.  159 

The  black  ducks  gather,  with  plumes  so  rich, 

And  the  coots  in  twinkling  lines  ; 
And  the  swift  and  slender  water-witch, 

Whose  neck  like  silver  shines  ; 

Big  eider-ducks,  with  their  caps  pale  green 

And  their  salmon-colored  vests  ; 
And  gay  mergansers  sailing  between, 

With  their  long  and  glittering  crests. 

But  the  loon  aloof  on  the  outer  edge 

Of  the  noisy  meeting  keeps, 
And  laughs  to  watch  them  behind  the  ledge 

Where  the  lazy  breaker  sweeps. 

They  scream  and  wheel,  and  dive  and  fret, 

And  flutter  in  the  foam  ; 
And  fish  and  mussels  blue  they  get 

To  feed  their  young  at  home  : 

Till  hurrying  in,  the  little  auk 

Brings  tidings  that  benumbs, 
And  stops  at  once  their  clamorous  talk,  — 

"  The  Burgomaster  comes  !  " 


160  THE  BURGOMASTER   GULL. 

And  up  he  sails,  a  splendid  sight ! 

With  "  wings  like  banners  "  wide, 
And  eager  eyes  both  big  and  bright, 

That  peer  on  every  side. 

A  lovely  kittiwake  flying  past 

With  a  slippery  pollock  fine,  — 
Quoth  the  Burgomaster,  "  Not  so  fast, 

My  beauty  !     This  is  mine  ! " 

His  strong  wing  strikes  with  a  dizzying  shock  ; 

Poor  kittiwake,  shrieking,  flees  ; 
His  booty  he  takes  to  the  nearest  rock, 

To  eat  it  at  his  ease. 

The  scared  birds  scatter  to  left  and  right, 
.     But  the  bold  buccaneer,  in  his  glee, 
Cares  little  enough  for  their  woe  and  their  fright,  - 
"  'Twill  be  your  turn  next !  "  cries  he. 

He  sees  not,  hidden  behind  the  rock, 
In  the  sea-weed,  a  small  boat's  hull, 

Nor  dreams  he  the  gunners  have  spared  the  flock 
For  the  Burgomaster  Gull. 


THE  BURGOMASTER   GULL.  161 

So  proudly  his  dusky  wings  are  spread, 
And  he  launches  out  on  the  breeze,  — 

When  lo  !  what  thunder  of  wrath  and  dread  ! 
What  deadly  pangs  are  these  ! 

The  red  blood  drips  and  the  feathers  fly, 

Down  drop  the  pinions  wide  ; 
The  robber-chief,  with  a  bitter  cry, 

Falls  headlong  in  the  tide  ! 

They  bear  him  off  with  laugh  and  shout  ; 

The  wary  birds  return,  — 
From  the  clove-brown  feathers  that  float  about 

The  glorious  news  they  learn. 

Then  such  a  tumult  fills  the  place 

As  never  was  sung  or  said ; 
And  all  cry,  wild  with  joy,  "  The  base, 

Bad  Burgomaster 's  dead  !  " 

And  the  old-wives  sit  with  their  caps  so  white, 

And  their  pretty  beaks  so  red, 
And  swing  on  the  billows,  and  scream  with  delight, 

For  the  Burgomaster 's  dead ! 


MILKING. 

LITTLE  dun  cow  to  the  apple  tree  tied, 

Chewing  the  cud  of  reflection, 
1  that  am  milking  you,  sit  by  your  side, 

Lost  in  a  sad  retrospection. 

Far  o'er  the  field  the  tall  daisies  blush  warm, 

For  rosy  the  sunset  is  dying ; 
Across  the  still  valley,  o'er  meadow  and  farm, 

The  flush  of  its  beauty  is  lying. 

White  foams  the  milk  in  the  pail  at  my  feet, 

Clearly  the  robins  are  calling  ; 
Soft.blows  the  evening  wind  after  the  heat, 

Cool  the  long  shadows  are  falling. 

Little  dun  cow,  'tis  so  tranquil  and  sweet ! 

Are  you  light-hearted,  I  wonder  ? 
What  do  you  think  about,  —  something  to  eat  ? 

On  clover  and  grass  do  you  ponder  ? 


MILKING.  163 

I  am  remembering  days  that  are  dead, 
And  a  brown  little  maid  in  the  gloaming, 

Milking  her  cow,  with  the  west  burning  red 
Over  waves  that  about  her  were  foaming. 

Up  from  the  sad  east  the  deep  shadows  gloomed 

Out  of  the  distance  and  found  her  ; 
Lightly  she  sang  while  the  solemn  sea  boomed 

Like  a  great  organ  around  her. 

Under  the  light-house  no  sweet-brier  grew, 

Dry  was  the  grass,  and  no  daisies 
Waved  in  the  wind,  and  the  flowers  were  few 

That  lifted  their  delicate  faces. 

But  O,  she  was  happy,  and  careless,  and  blest, 

Full  of  the  song-sparrow's  spirit ; 
Grateful  for  life,  for  the  least  and  the  best 

Of  the  blessings  that  mortals  inherit. 

Fairer  than  gardens  of  Paradise  seemed 

The  desolate  spaces  of  water  ; 
Nature    was   hers,  —  clouds    that   frowned  —  stars 
that  gleamed,  — 

What  beautiful  lessons  they  taught  her  ! 


164 


MILKING. 


Would  I  could  find  you  again,  little  maid, 

Striving  with  utmost  endeavor,  — 
Could  find  in  my  breast  that  light  heart,  unafraid, 

That  has  vanished  for  ever  and  ever ! 


JACK   FROST. 

RUSTILY  creak  the  crickets :  Jack  Frost  came  down 
last  night, 

He  slid  to  the  earth  on  a'  starbeam,  keen  and 
sparkling  and  bright ; 

He  sought  in  the  grass  for  the  crickets  with  del- 
icate icy  spear, 

So  sharp  and  fine  and  fatal,  and  he  stabbed  them 
far  and  near. 

Only  a  few  stout  fellows,  thawed  by  the  morning 
sun, 

Chirrup  a  mournful  echo  of  by  gone  frolic  and  fun. 

But  yesterday  such  a  rippling  chorus  ran  all  over 
the  land, 

Over  the  hills  and  the  valleys,  down  to  the  gray 
sea-sand. 

Millions  of  merry  harlequins,  skipping  and  dan- 
cing in  glee, 

Cricket  and  locust  and  grasshopper,  happy  as 
happy  could  be: 

Scooping  rich  caves  in  ripe  apples,  and  feeding 
on  honey  and  spice, 


1 66  JACK  FROST. 

Drunk   with    the    mellow  sunshine,   nor    dreaming 

of  spears  of  ice  ! 
Was  it  not  enough  that  the  crickets  your  weapon 

of  power  should  pierce? 
Pray   what  have  you   done   to   the  flowers?    Jack 

Frost,  you  are  cruel  and  fierce. 
With  never  a  sign  or  a  whisper,  you  kissed  them, 

and  lo,  they  exhale 
Their  beautiful  lives  ;  they  are  drooping,  their  sweet 

.color  ebbs,  they  are  pale, 
They   fade    and    they   die !    See    the    pansies,    yet 

striving  so  hard  to  unfold 
Their    garments    of   velvety   splendor,    all    Tynan 

purple  and  gold. 
But  how  weary  they  look,  and  how  withered,  like 

handsome  court  dames,  who  all  night 
Have  danced  at  the   ball   till   the   sunrise   struck 

chill  to  their  hearts  with  its  light. 
Where   hides   the  wood-aster  ?    She    vanished    as 

snow-wreaths  dissolve  in  the  sun 
The    moment    you    touched    her.      Look    yonder, 

where  sober  and  gray  as  a  nun 
The    maple-tree    stands   that  at  sunset  was  blush- 
ing as  red  as  the  sky; 
At  its  foot,  glowing   scarlet   as  fire,  its    robes    of 

magnificence  lie. 


JACK  FROST. 


167 


Despoiler !    stripping   the  world   as   you   strip   the 

shivering  tree 
Of  color  and  sound  and  perfume,  scaring  the  bird 

and  the  bee, 
Turning   beauty   to   ashes  —  O   to  join   the    swift 

swallows  and  fly 
Far  away  out   of  sight  of  your   mischief!    I   give 

you  no  welcome,  not  I ! 


THE   BIRDS'    ORCHESTRA. 

BOBOLINK  shall  play  the  violin, 

Great  applause  to  win  ; 
Lonely,  sweet,  and  sad,  the  meadow  lark 

Plays  the  oboe.     Hark! 
That  inspired  bugle  with  a  soul  — 

'Tis  the  oriole  ; 
Yellow-bird  the  clarionet  shall  play, 

Blithe,  and  clear,  and  gay. 
Purple  finch  what  instrument  will  suit  ? 

He  can  play  the  flute. 
Fire-winged  blackbirds  sound  the  merry  fife, 

Soldiers  without  strife; 
And  the  robins  wind  the  mellow  horn 

Loudly  eve  and  morn. 
Who  shall  clash  the  cymbals  ? .   Jay  and  crow  ; 

That  is  all  they  know. 
Hylas  twang  their  harps  so  weird  and  high, 

Such  a  tuneful  cry ! 
And  to  roll  the  deep,  melodious  drum, 

Lo  !    the  bull-frogs  come ! 
Then  the  splendid  chorus,  who  shall  sing 

Of  so  fine  a  thing;? 


Tff£  BIRDS'   ORCHESTRA.  169 

Who  the  names  of  the  performers  call 

Truly,  one  and  all? 
Blue-bird,  bunting,  cat-bird,  chickadee 

(Phoebe-bird  is  he), 
Swallow,  creeper,  cross-bill,  cuckoo,  dove, 

Wee  wren  that  I  love  ; 
Brisk  fly-catcher,  finches  —  what  a  crowd  ! 

King-bird  whistling  loud  ; 
Sweet  rose-breasted  grossbeak,  vireo,  thrush  — 

Hear  these  two,  and  hush ; 
Scarlet  tanager,  song-sparrow  small 

(Dearer  he  than  all ; 
At  the  first  sound  of  his  friendly  voice 

Saddest  hearts  .rejoice), 
Redpoll,  nuthatch,  thrasher,  plover  gray  — 

Curlew  did  I  say? 
What  a  jangling  all  the  grakles  make ! 

Is  it  some  mistake? 
Anvil  chorus  yellow-hammers  strike, 

And  the  wicked  shrike 
Harshly  creaks  like  some  half-open  door; 

He  can  do  no  more. 


THE   BLIND   LAMB. 

'T  WAS  summer,  and  softly  the  ocean 

Sang,  sparkling  in  light  and  heat, 
And  over  the  water  and  over  the  land 

The  warm  south  wind  blew  sweet. 

And  the  children  played  in  the  sunshine, 
And  sShouted  and  scampered  in  glee 

O'er  the  grassy  slopes,  or  the  weed-strewn  beach, 
Or  rocked  on  the  dreaming  sea. 

They  had  roamed  the  whole  bright  morning, 

The  troop  of  merry  boys, 
And  in  they  flocked  at  noontide, 

With  a  clamor  of  joyful  noise. 

And  they  bore  among  them  gently 

A  wee  lamb,  white  as  snow; 
And,  "  O  mamma,  mamma,  he  's  blind  ! 

He  can't  tell  where  to  go. 


THE  BLIND  LAMB.  171 

"  And  we  found  him  lost  and  lonely, 
And  we  brought  him  home  to  you, 

And  we're  going  to  feed  him  and  care  for  him!*' 
Cried  the  eager  little  crew. 

"  Look,  how  he  falls  over  everything !  " 

And  they  set  him  on  his  feet, 
And  aimlessly  he  wandered, 

With  a  low  and  mournful  bleat. 

Some  sign  of  pity  he  seemed  to  ask, 

And  he  strove  to  draw  more  near, 
When  he  felt  the  touch  of  a  human  hand, 

Or  a  kind  voice  reach  his  -ear. 

They  tethered  him  in  a  grassy  space 

Hard  by  the  garden  gate, 
And  with  sweet  fresh  milk  they  fed  him, 

And  cared  for  him  early  and  late. 

But  as  the  golden  days  went  on, 

Forgetful  the  children  grew, 
They  wearied  of  tending  the  poor  blind  lamb, 

No  longer  a  plaything  new. 


172  THE  BLIND   LAMB. 

And  so  each  day  I  changed  his  place 

Within  the  garden  fence,' 
And  fed  him  morn  and  noon  and  eve, 

And  was  his  Providence. 

And  he  knew  the  rustle  of  my  gown, 

And  every  lightest  tone, 
And  when  he  heard  me  pass,  straightway 

He  followed  o'er  stock  and  stone. 

One  dark  and  balmy  evening, 

When  the  south  wind  breathed  of  rain, 
I  went  to  lead  my  pet  within, 

And  found  but  a  broken  chain. 

And  a  terror  fell  upon  me, 

For  round  on  every  side 
The  circling  sea  was  sending  in 

The  strength  of  the  full  flood-tide. 

I  called  aloud  and  listened, 

I  knew  not  where  to  seek ; 
Out  of  the  dark  the  warm  wet  wind 

Blew  soft  against  my  cheek, 


THE  BLIND  LAMB.  173 

And  naught  was  heard  but  the  sound  of  waves 

Crowding  against  the  shore. 
Over  the  dewy  grass  I  ran, 

And  called  aloud  once  more. 

What  reached  me  out  of  the  distance  ? 

Surely,  a  piteous  bleat ! 
I  threw  my  long  dress  over  my  arm, 

And  followed  with  flying  feet. 

Down  to  the  edge  of  the  water, 

Calling  again  and  again, 
Answered  so  clearly,  near  and  more  near, 

By  that  tremulous  cry  of  pain  ! 

I  crept  to  the  end  of  the  rocky  ledge, 

Black  lay  the  water  wide  ; 
Up  from  among  the  rippling  waves 

Came  the  shivering  voice  that  cried. 

I  could  not  see,  but  I  answered  him ; 

And,  stretching  a  rescuing  hand, 
I  felt  in  the  darkness  his  sea-soaked  wool, 

And  drew  him  in  to  the  land. 


174  THE  BLIND  LAMB. 

And  the  poor  little  creature  pressed  so  close, 

Distracted  with  delight, 
While  I  dried  the  brine  from  his  dripping  fleece 

With  my  apron  soft  and  white. 

Close  in  my  arms  I  gathered  him, 

More  glad  than  tongue  can  tell, 
And  he  laid  on  my  shoulder  his  pretty  head, 

He  knew  that  all  was  well. 

And  I  thought  as  I  bore  him  swiftly  back, 

Content,  close  folded  thus, 
Of  the  Heavenly  Father  compassionate, 

Whose  pity  shall  succor  us. 

I  thought  of  the  arms  of  mercy 

That  clasp  the  world  about, 
And  that  not  one  of  His  children 

Shall  perish  in  dread  and  doubt : 

For  He  hears  the  voices  that  cry  to  Him, 

And  near  His  love  shall  draw: 
With  help  and  comfort  He  waits  for  us, 

The  Light,  and  the  Life,  and  the  Law! 


THE   ROBIN/ 

IN  the  tall  elm-tree  sat  the  Robin  bright, 

Through  the  rainy  April  day, 
And  he  caroled  clear  with  a  pure  delight, 

In  the  face  of  the  sky  so  gray. 
And  the  silver  rain  through  the  blossoms  dropped, 

And  fell  on  the  robin's  coat, 
And  his  brave  red  breast,  but  he  never  stopped 

Piping  his  cheerful  note ; 

For  O,  the  fields  were  green  and  glad, 

And  the  blissful  life  that  stirred 
In  the  earth's  wide  breast,  was  full  and  warm 

In  the  heart  of  the  little  bird. 
The  rain-cloud  lifted,  the  sunset  light 

Streamed  wide  over  valley  and  hill, 
As  the  plains  of  heaven  the  land  grew  bright, 

And  the  warm  south  wind  was  still. 

Then  loud  and  clear  called  the  happy  bird. 

And  rapturously  he  sang, 
Till  wood  and  meadow  and  river  side 

With  jubilant  echoes  rang. 


1 76 


THE  ROBIN. 


But  the  sun  dropped  down  in  the  quiet  west, 
And  he  hushed  his  song  at  last ; 

All  nature  softly  sank  to  rest, 
And  the   April  day  had  passed. 


MOZART   AT   THE   FIRESIDE. 

AUTUMN   nights  grow  chilly: 

See  how  faces  bloom 
By  the  cheerful  fire-light, 

In  the  quiet  room  ! 

Mother's  amber  necklace, 
Father's  beard  of  gold, 

Rosy  cheeks  of  little  boys 
All  glowing  from  the  cold, 

Basket  heaped  with  barberries 

Coral  red  and  bright, 
Little  Silver's  shaggy  fur 

All  shining  in  the  light ! 

Barberries  bright  they're  picking, 
And  smile  and  do  not  speak; 

Happy  little  youngest  boy 
Kisses  mother's  cheek,  — 


178  MOZART  AT  THE  FIRESIDE. 

First  mother's  and  then  father's, 
And  nestles  his  pretty  head 

In  the  shining  fur  of  Silver, 

While  they  pick  the  barberries  red. 

At  the  piano  sitting. 

One  touches  the  beautiful  keys; 
Silent  they  sit  and  listen 

To  magical  melodies. 

Heavenly,  tender,  .and  hopeful, 
Balm  for  the  saddest  heart, 

Rises  the  lovely  music 
Of  the  divine  Mozart ! 

The  children  hear  the  birds  sing, 
And  the  voices  of  the  May; 

They  feel  the  freshness  of  morning, 
Before  the  toil  of  the  day; 

But  father  and  mother  listen 

To  a  deeper  undertone, 
A  strong  arm,  full  of  comfort,  seems 

About  life's  trouble  thrown. 


MOZART  AT  THE  FIRESIDE.  179 

O  children,  when  your  summer 

Passes,  and  winter  is  near, 
When  the  sky  is  dim  that  was  so  bright, 

And  the  way  seems  long  and  drear. 

Remember  the  mighty  master 

Still  touches  the  human  heart, 
Speaking* afar  from  heaven, 

The  wonderful  Mozart! 

He  can  bring  back  your  childhood 

With  his  strains  of  airy  grace, 
Till  life  seems  fresh  and  beautiful 

Again  for  a  little  space: 

With  voices  of  lofty  sweetness 

He  shall  encourage  you, 
Till  all  good  things  seem  possible, 

And  heaven's  best  promise  true ; 

Till  health  and  strength  and  loveliness 

Blossom  from  stone  and  clod, 
And  the  sad  old  world  grows  bright  again 

With  the  cheerfulness  of  God. 


UNDER   THE   LIGHT-HOUSE. 

BENEATH   the   tall,   white   lighthouse   strayed    the 
children, 

In  the  May  morning  sweet*; 

About  the  steep  and  rough  gray  rocks  they  wan- 
dered 

With  hesitating  feet ; 
For  scattered  far  and  wide  the   birds  were    lying, 

Quiet,  and  cold,  and  dead, 

That  met,  while  they  were  swiftly  winging   north- 
ward, 

The  fierce  light  overhead, 
And  as  the  frail  moths  in  the  summer  evenings 

Fly  to  the  candle's  blaze, 
Rushed  wildly  at  the  splendor,  finding  only 

Death  in  those  blinding  rays. 
And  here  were  bobolink,  and  wren,   and  sparrow, 

Veery,  and  oriole, 
And  purple  finch,  and  rosy  grossbeak,  swallows, 

And  king-birds  quaint  and  droll  ; 
Gay  soldier  blackbirds,  wearing  on  their  shoulders 

Red,  gold-edged  epaulets, 


UNDER    THE  LIGHT-HOUSE.  181 

And  many  a  homely,  brown,  red-breasted  robin, 

Whose  voice  no  child  forgets. 
And  yellow-birds  —  what  shapes  of  perfect  beauty! 

What  silence  after  song ! 
And  mingled  with  them,  unfamiliar  warblers 

That  to  far  woods  belong. 
Clothing  the  gray  rocks  with  a  mournful  beauty 

By  scores  the  dead  forms  lay, 
That,  dashed  against  the  tall  tower's  cruel  windows, 

Dropped  like  the  spent  sea  spray. 
How  many  an  old  and   sun-steeped   barn,  far   in- 
land, 

Should  miss  about  its  eaves 
The  twitter  and  the  gleam  of  these  swift  swallows ! 

And,  swinging  'mid  the  leaves, 
The  oriole's  nest,  all  empty  in  the  elm-tree, 

Would  cold  and  silent  be, 
And  never  more  these  robins  make  the  meadows 

Ring  with  their  ecstasy. 

Would  not  the  gay  swamp-border  miss  the  black- 
birds, 

Whistling  so  loud  and  clear? 
Would  not  the  bobolinks'  delicious  music 

Lose  something  of  its  cheer? 
"Yet,"  thought  the  wistful   children,  gazing  land- 
ward, 


182  UNDER   THE  LIGHT-HOUSE. 

"  The  birds  will  not  be  missed  ; 
Others  will  take  their  place  in  field  and  forest, 

Others  will  keep  their  tryst : 
And  we,  we  only,  know  how  death  has  met  them  ; 

We  wonder  and  we  mourn 
That  from  their  innocent  and  bright  existence 

Thus  roughly  they  are  torn." 
And  so  they  laid  the  sweet,  dead  shapes  together, 

Smoothing  each  ruffled  wing, 
Perplexed  and  sorrowful,  and  pondering  deeply 

The  meaning  of  this  thing. 
(Too  hard  to  fathom  for  the  wisest  nature 

Crowned  with  the  snows  of  age ! ) 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  fair  May  morning 

Seemed  like  a  blotted  page. 

They  bore  them    down    from    the   rough    cliffs    of 
granite 

To  where  the  grass  grew  green, 
And  laid  them  'neath  the  soft  turf,  all  together, 

With  many  a  flower  between ; 
And,  looking  up  with  wet  eyes,  saw  how  brightly 

Upon  the  summer  sea 

Lay  the  clear  sunlight,  how  white  sails  were  shin- 
ing, 

And  small  waves  laughed  in  glee: 
And  somehow,  comfort  grew  to  check  their  grieving, 


UNDER   THE  LIGHT-HOUSE.  183 

A  sense  of  brooding  care, 
As  if,  in  spite  of  death,  a  loving  presence 

Filled  all  the  viewless  air. 

"  What    should   we    fear  ? "    whispered   the    little 
children, 

"There  is  no  thing  so  small 
But  God  will  care  for  it  in  earth  or  heaven ; 

He  sees  the  sparrows  fall ! " 


THE   CRADLE. 

THE  barn  was  low  and  dim  and  old, 
Broad  on  the  floor  the  sunshine  slept, 

And  through  the  windows  and  the  doors 
Swift  in  and  out  the  swallows  swept. 

And  breezes  from  the  summer  sea 

Drew  through,  and  stirred  the  fragrant  hay 

Down-dropping  from  the  loft,  wherein 
A  gray  old  idle  fish-net  lay 

Heaped  in  a  corner,  and  one  loop 

Hung  loose  the  dry,  sweet  grass  among, 

And  hammock-wise  to  all  the  winds 
It  floated  to  and  fro,  and  swung. 

And  there  one  day  the  children  brought 
The  pet  of  all  the  house  to  play  ; 

A  baby  boy  of  three  years  old, 

And  sweeter  than  the  dawn  of  day. 


THE  CRADLE.        ,  185 

They  laid  him  in  the  dropping  loop, 
And  softly  swung  him,  till  at  last 

Over  his  beauty  balmy  Sleep 
Its  delicate  enchantment  cast 

And  then  they  ran  to  call  us  all : 

"  Come,  see  where  little  Rob  is  !     Guess  !  " 

And  brought  us  where  the  darling  lay, 
A  heap  of  rosy  loveliness 

Curled  in  the  net:    the  dim  old  place 
He  brightened ;  like  a  star  he  shone 

Cradled  in  air  -}  we  stood  as  once 
The  shepherds  of  Judea  had  done. 

And  while  adoring  him  we  gazed, 
With  eyes  that  gathered  tender  dew, 

Wrathful  upon  the  gentle  scene 
His  Celtic  nurse  indignant  flew. 

« Is  this  a  fit  place  for  the  child ! " 

And  out  of  his  delicious  sleep 
She  clutched  him,  muttering  as  she  went, 

Her  scorn  and  wonder,  low  and  deep. 


i86 


THE   CRADLE. 


His  father  smiled,  and  drew  aside ; 

A  grave,  sweet  look  was  in  his  face, 
"  For  One,  who  in  a  manger  lay, 

It  was  not  found  too  poor  a  place! 


CHANTICLEER. 

I  WAKE  !    I  feel  the  day  is  near  ; 

I  hear  the  red  cock  crowing ! 
He  cries  "  'T  is  dawn  !  "     How  sweet  and  clear 
His  cheerful  call  comes  to  my  ear, 

While  light  is  slowly  growing. 

The  white  snow  gathers,  flake  on  flake ; 

I  hear  the  red  cock  crowing! 
Is  anybody  else  awake 
To  see  the  winter  morning  break, 

While  thick  and  fast  't  is  snowing  ? 

I  think  the  world  is  all  asleep; 

I  hear  the  red  cock  crowing ! 
Out  of  the  frosty  pane  I  peep ; 
The  drifts  are  piled  so  wide  and  deep, 

And  wild  the  wind  is  blowing! 

Nothing  I  see  has  shape  or  form; 
I  hear  the  red  cock  crowing! 


1 88  CHANTICLEER. 

But  that  dear  voice  comes  through  the  storm 
To  greet  me  in  my  nest  so  warm, 
As  if  the  sky  were  glowing ! 

A  happy  little  child,  I  lie 

And  hear  the  red  cock  crowing. 
The  day  is  dark.     I  wonder  why 
His  voice  rings  out  so  brave  and  high, 
With  gladness  overflowing. 


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